‘No, run along.’ He turned to the other men. ‘You don’t want to hear her, do you?’
Everybody seemed to agree that they did not: but Pauline was not leaving things like that; she needed the work, and apart from anything else there was her frock to be paid for. It was, she thought, very mean to bring her down, and then refuse even to hear her. She spoke directly to Mr French.
‘Please ask them to hear me; I know I would be all right as Pease-blossom; honestly I would.’
She heard a laugh that she recognized, and shading her eyes again found Madame at the end of the row of men. She was most surprised: Madame never came to auditions. She at once dropped a deep curtsy, and gave the customary greeting. As she got up she heard Madame say ‘Yes’, and Mr French told her to come through the pass door and speak to them. Pauline had never been through a pass door before; but she was by now too experienced an actress not to know where it would be, and she ran to the prompt side, and there, sure enough, was the big iron door.
One of the men hanging about the stage opened it for her. On the other side there were four carpeted steps down, and on her right the open door leading into the stage box, in front of her the glass-topped swing doors leading through to the stalls. She opened this door, and came down the row of stalls to where Madame and the men were sitting. Madame held out her hand, and Pauline curtsied again, which was difficult between the seats. Then Mr French introduced her to the other men, and told her that they only did not ask her to recite, because they had nearly all seen her as Alice, and knew she would be just right for Pease-blossom.
At that moment the man at the far end of the row stood up and called out, ‘Will those children who have come about the part of Moth come forward?’
The two girls from the Academy, and a boy from another school, came to the footlights. Mr French pulled down the tip-up seat next to him, and told Pauline to sit. A large man with a cigar on the other side of Madame said he thought it was a good idea to have a boy, and Madame said she thought her girls would look better. In the end the boy was told to recite. He recited ‘Prospero’s epilogue’ quite well, but with a very ugly accent.
‘Pity about that voice,’ the man with the cigar said. ‘Clever boy; might have under-studied Puck.’
They all looked round at a man in the row behind, and asked if the boy’s voice was always as bad as that, or if it was nervousness. The man said nervousness, he thought, so somebody suggested they might hear a few separate words out of the play. They told the man to get the boy to say ‘Hail’. The man went to the front of the stalls and lent across the orchestra well.
‘Say “Hail”, Peter.’
‘Hile,’ said Peter.
‘No. Hail. Hay-Hay-Hay-el.’
‘Hile,’ the boy repeated.
All the men in the stalls looked at each other and shook their heads. The man with the cigar told the man in charge of Peter it was no good, and asked Madame to get her girls to recite. They both did, one a speech of Titania’s and the other a piece of poetry. Pauline thought the girl who said Titania’s speech the best, but the one who said the poetry was engaged. They then called for the Cobwebs. Four girls came forward, all with red hair; one, not from the Academy, was much the smallest, and they told her to recite. She was not very good, but her accent was all right, and she was engaged. Then they asked for Mustard-seed. There was a pause, and then the girl engaged for Cobweb curtsied to Madame and said, ‘She isn’t here.’ It was then Pauline had her big idea. Why shouldn’t Petrova be Mustard-seed? She pulled at Mr French’s sleeve.
‘My sister is here; she’d make a very good Mustard-seed.’
He looked at her in surprise, and said that he did not know that she had a sister, and anyhow they wanted a dark Mustard-seed. Pauline explained that Petrova was dark, and begged him to have a look at her.
Petrova, with her skirt hung over the back of her chair so that it should not crease, was gazing at the roof, and flying an imaginary aeroplane on a new route to China. Suddenly just as she was crossing Chinese Turkestan, she heard her name called. Nana pulled at her arm.
‘Run along, dear; they’re calling you.’
‘What for?’ Petrova asked stupidly, for her mind was still in her aeroplane.
‘Never mind, what for’ — Nana said, shaking out her skirts — ‘just you run and see.’
To Petrova, that walk, from her chair at the back of the stage to the footlights behind which sat those fearful people known collectively as ‘Managers’, was about the worst thing she had ever had to do. Her feet felt large, her hands awkward, and her stye seemed the largest in the world. When she got to the front of the stage, things were made worse, because leaning across the orchestra well was Madame, and in her nervousness, as she curtsied, she toppled over, and all the children on the stage tittered. Crimson in the face, she got up; but Madame did not seem annoyed: she only asked gently what Miss Jay had told her to say as her audition piece. Petrova was so horrified to hear she was to recite that she forgot to be shy.
‘I’m not reciting, Madame,’ she said earnestly. ‘Only dancing, and singing if they insist. Miss Jay wrote that in her letter to Garnie.’
‘Is this your sister?’ Mr French asked Pauline.
‘Yes.’ Pauline pulled his arm to get his ear nearer so that she could whisper without anyone else hearing. ‘Don’t look at her stye more than you can help; she’s never had one before.’
‘All right,’ he agreed, ‘I won’t.’
Petrova found that no matter what Miss Jay had said, she had got to recite. Her ‘M’audition’ was ‘The boy’s speech from Act III, Scene ii, of Henry the Fifth’. Nobody who was taught to speak Shakespeare’s words by Doctor Jakes could do them badly, but Petrova had only worked on the speech with her a short time before she went away with jaundice. Even so she had far more idea of the characterization of the boy than she would have done if she had only worked at it during Miss Jay’s Saturday class. She stuck her hands into her sash, put her legs apart and started, ‘Young as I am, I have observed these three swashers’. She got along swimmingly until the end of the part that describes ‘Pistol’. She knew the next bit was about Nym, but all she could remember was ‘For Nym…’ She looked desperately round for inspiration, and just as she did so Pauline came to her rescue. She knew the speech perfectly. She slipped out of the stalls and into the stage-box which was close to Petrova’s left ear. She lent forward.
‘“For Nym”,’ she prompted, ‘“he hath heard that men of few words are the best men”.’
The moment Petrova saw Pauline, and heard her prompt, she not only remembered the rest of the speech, but said it far better; it was wonderful what a comfort it was to have her so close that she could touch her.
When she had finished, Pauline went back to her seat and Petrova stood about feeling awkward again; but she had not long to feel awkward, for almost at once Pauline came flying through the pass door, her eyes shining. She dragged Petrova into a corner.
‘We’ve got them. We’ve got them. We’ve got them. We’re both engaged, me for Pease-blossom, and you for Mustard-seed.’
The man with the cigar came to the footlights and called out he was sorry he had to go, and that would be all for today, and would those people he had not seen come at the same time tomorrow?
Pauline and Petrova ran to Nana.
‘Imagine, Nana,’ Pauline said, ‘both of us, and in one play. Could anything be more convenient? Me Pease-blossom, and Petrova Mustard-seed.’
They got up to go, and at that moment an awful thing happened. The door on to the stage was pushed open, and in flew Winifred. She was looking less nice than usual, for her hair wanted washing and she had on a cotton frock which needed ironing.
‘Am I too late?’ she gasped. ‘I was at Canvey Island, and Mother only got the letter today — they forgot to forward it. Am I too late?’
‘What for?’ asked Pauline, with a wormish feeling inside.
‘Mustard-seed. Miss Jay wrote that she had espe
cially recommended me.’
Pauline looked at Petrova; then without a word they ran to the footlights. But it was no good looking for the managers; they had all gone.
They came back to Winifred.
‘I’m sorry,’ Petrova said, ‘But I’ve got it. I didn’t know it was you who wasn’t there, and now the managers have gone. They gave me Mustard-seed.’
Winifred bit her lip. Then she threw back her head.
‘It’s all right, Petrova; good luck. If it had to be anyone but me, I’m glad it’s you.’ Her voice wobbled at the end.
Nana patted her hand.
‘That’s very nicely said, Winifred. Now you come back with us to tea, and we’ll fix things so that you come round tomorrow, and I’ll iron up Pauline’s frock for you to wear at the audition, so that you’re sure to get into the fairy ballet.’
Petrova looked at Pauline, for she knew she was fussy about her clothes, but Pauline was thinking only of Winifred.
‘If Mr French is there, go down and see him. Perhaps he’d get you the under-studies.’
Nana caught hold of Pauline as they were leaving the theatre.
‘I hope you don’t mind her wearing your frock, dear; but the poor little thing would never get taken on looking like that. Fairy indeed! She’d be lucky to get into a ballet of goblins looking the way she does today.’
CHAPTER XIV
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’
THE ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ was a tremendous production; it was far grander than ‘Alice in Wonderland’, or even the play with the film star, and Pauline kept telling Petrova that she must not think the stage was always like that. In ‘Alice in Wonderland’, Pauline’s dress had been made in the wardrobe, in the film-star play they had taken her to the children’s department of Debenham and Freebody, and bought her a frock ready made, but in this production they were sent to famous stage costume-makers and designers.
As soon as Pauline and Petrova said who they were, large coloured pictures were produced, one marked ‘Pease-blossom’, and the other ‘Mustard-seed’. Pauline had hoped their dresses would be the real fairy sort, with wings sticking up behind; but they were not a bit like that. They both had skin tights all over, Pauline’s in flesh colour, and Petrova’s mustard, with queer turn-up-toed shoes to match. Round Pauline’s waist and over one shoulder were pink flowers; she had a wreath of the same flowers round her head. Petrova had nothing on beyond her tights, except a funny little hat. They both had silk wings that fastened to their shoulders and wrists, and were so long that when they were walking they trailed on the floor like a train. Nana, who had taken them to the fitting, was disgusted and said so.
‘Fairies! Might just as well send them on the stage in their combies!’
The dressmaker laughed.
‘Would you have liked frills, and tinsel, and wired wings, and wands?’
Nana turned the picture of Mustard-seed’s dress round towards her. Her face showed exactly what she thought of it.
‘Combies of a nasty yellow shade is not what a fairy would wear.’
‘They’re modern fairies,’ the dressmaker explained.
‘Modern!’ Nana gave the sort of sniff she gave when she thought of Gum. ‘If that’s modern, give me the old-fashioned kind.’
Pauline said nothing, but she agreed with Nana. Petrova said nothing because she was not listening. She was wondering if tomorrow, being Sunday, she and Mr Simpson were going to fly.
The production was on a very large scale — there was a great deal of every sort of person. There were over a hundred fairies in the ballet — so many that in spite of the fact that Winifred was in it, though she had not got the under-studies, she was quite difficult to find. There were eighty Amazons attending on Hippolyta, and a large crowd attached to Theseus’s Palace.
The result of all these extra people was that the principals became unduly important. In ‘Alice in Wonderland’ everybody, except the under-studies, was a principal; the same applied to the film-star play; but in this production there were twenty-one speaking parts, one singing part, and one principal dancer, and everyone else was in the ballet, or walking on. Pauline and Petrova were, of course, principals, and as such separated from the ballet and walkers-on, as if they lived in different worlds. They were so grand compared to the hundred fairies that they might have got proud, if Pauline had not been cured of getting proud, and if Petrova had cared about being a principal; as a matter of fact, except for the money, she would have far preferred the ballet if she had to be in the play at all, as it was less conspicuous. In any case, both of them had too much sense not to know that it did not matter much who played the fairies; they had so little to do that any child in the ballet who had a decent accent could have taken their places in a minute.
As a matter of fact, there was an awkward moment when somebody else very nearly did take Petrova’s. It was at their first serious rehearsal — that is to say, nobody had a book — and the producer began insisting on having the inflections and emphasis of a line right: They were called for Act III. The four fairies sat happily watching the clowns at their rehearsal, and Puck putting the ass’s head on Bottom, only they had no properties, so there was no ass’s head. Then, when Bottom sang, and Titania woke up, they all four stood up ready to make their entrances. The producer stopped the rehearsal and came over to them.
‘Look here, I want you three, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed, to get exactly the same inflection on the “and I”. “And.” “I.”’ He spoke the ‘and’ on quite a low note and the ‘I’ was almost a squeak. He turned to Pauline. ‘I want your “ready” on the same high note that the other three are going to use for the “I”. Do you understand?’
They all said they did, so the rehearsal went on.
The inflection was not difficult, but it was unnatural. Pauline was sent back three times before she got her ‘Ready’ quite right. Cobweb had to say her ‘And I’ four times, Moth, profiting by Cobweb’s lesson, got hers near enough to pass for a first attempt; but listening to them all had confused Petrova, and in her effort to do it nicely, she made, the ‘and’ a growl, like a bear, and the ‘I’ a shrill squeal. Everybody laughed, except the producer, who said coldly:
‘Go back and say that properly. This is not the moment to be funny.’
Petrova went off stage, but her knees knocked together. Funny! Nobody ever was so anxious not to be funny.
‘“And I”,’ she bleated. This time there was no inflection at all; both words were on the same note.
The producer tapped his foot.
‘Come along, my dear, I have no time to waste, there are plenty of other children in the theatre who could play this part.’ All the fairies in the ballet who were sitting in the stalls sat up hopefully. ‘Go on, try again.’ As Petrova passed her Pauline touched her hand comfortingly, but nothing could comfort Petrova.
‘“And I”,’ she muttered,’“And I”.’
‘Make the whole entrance again,’ said the producer. ‘That’ll help her.’
Titania held out her arms.
‘Pease-blossom! Cobweb! Moth! And Mustard-seed.’
Pauline jumped on to the stage.
‘Ready.’ Her inflection was perfect.
‘And I. And I,’ said Cobweb and Moth.
‘And I,’ said Petrova.
How she did it she had no idea, but somehow her inflection got the wrong way up: ‘and’ was a squeak, and her ‘I’ a growl. There was an awful pause: nobody dared laugh with the producer already so annoyed. The child who was understudying the four fairies got ready to jump out of her seat and run up on to the stage. Petrova hung her head, while her face got redder and redder; she turned her eyes up to the producer’s face. She knew she must be going to lose the part — she wondered she had kept it so long considering her stye was not quite gone — but now this on top of the stye must settle it. Obviously a person who had a part ought to be able to say an easy thing like ‘and I’ right. The producer stared down at Petrova, l
ooking at her sternly; then suddenly his face began to wobble, starting at his chin, then his eyes crinkled up, and then he threw back his head and roared with laughter, and all the theatre laughed too. He rumpled Petrova’s hair.
‘You are a joke.’ He looked at Pauline. ‘Sisters, aren’t you?’
Pauline nodded.
‘Well, take her home and go over it with her till she does get it right. If it’s wrong tomorrow I shall have to take the part away.’ He rumpled Petrova’s hair again. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get it.’
It was not Pauline who got the inflection right, but Doctor Jakes, who had just returned, recovered from jaundice, and she not only got that line right, but suggested that, as she had nothing to do while the children were at rehearsals, she should take them to the theatre. This left Nana free for Posy, and she would enjoy the rehearsals, since it was her beloved Shakespeare, and she could help the children better if she heard what was expected of them. As a matter of fact, after that one rehearsal they had no more trouble.
Almost as soon as rehearsals were under way, official school term began again. This meant there were no rehearsals for the children in the mornings, and that five hours’ lessons a day had to be fitted in, as well as a walk, and the afternoon rehearsals. Pauline did not mind; she found the actual being in a theatre fun, and though, as a child in the theatre, she was strictly looked after by not only one of the two approved matrons, but by Doctor Jakes, she somehow succeeded in enjoying herself. She would sit entranced in the stalls hearing the grown-up people work at their parts. There was no need now for Madame Moulin to quote that an actress can always learn till her last hour. Pauline would be fourteen in Decem ber, and not only had the sense to see how much she was able to pick up from watching other people, but she had sufficient technique to follow the producer’s reasoning. She understood ‘timing’, she was still apt to time wrong herself, but she was learning to hear when somebody else timed a line wrong. She was beginning, too, to grasp the meaning of ‘pace’. The producer of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ was a great believer in ‘pace’, especially for Shakespeare. Pauline, listening to the rehearsals, could feel the pace of the production, and going home on the tube she and Doctor Jakes would have discussions about it — how this actor was slow, and that one had good ‘pace’.