  Peggy and Amy thought they had arrived early for opening day at the New York Dramatic Academy, but when they entered the old building, they found the long hallway filled to capacity with students waiting their turn on the ancient elevators. Some obviously new students milled around aimlessly, looking somewhat lost and more than a little frightened. Peggy wondered if she and Amy looked the same, and made a determined effort to appear at ease and knowing. But her pose couldn’t have been very convincing, for a small, thin boy with huge glasses and a shock of black hair came over to them with a grin and said, “You’re new, aren’t you?” “Why, yes,” Peggy answered. “Do we show it?” “Oh, no, not at all,” he assured them earnestly. “You look just fine. It’s just that I’ve been here two years, and I know everyone. I’m Pete Piper, but everyone calls me Pip. I just thought I’d help lead you through the maze, if you’d like.” Peggy and Amy introduced themselves, and thanked Pip for his help. “Oh, don’t thank me,” he said. “Everybody does it. Whenever we see new students on the first day, the old-timers introduce themselves and offer to help. It’s kind of a custom.” Looking around, Peggy noticed that the “lost lambs” she had first seen were by now in conversation with other, older students, and all of them looked a good deal more relaxed. “I think it’s a lovely custom,” Amy said. “It makes our Southern Hospitality look right cold by comparison!” By this time, it was their turn at the elevator doors, which suddenly flew open with their usual wail of protest. Peggy, Amy, and Pip were almost carried in, with no need to walk at all, by the mass of students around them, and soon were packed as tight as berries in a basket. Protesting loudly, the elevator slowly ascended. Upstairs, the halls which had been nearly empty when Peggy had last seen them were now swarming with students. The ones who seemed to know where they were going swirled and eddied around others who looked around doubtfully and hesitated to go anywhere. Pip shook his head and said, “More waifs and strays up here, I see. I’ll set you on your way, and then gather up a new crop. You just go right into the little theater—ahead of you, through those doors—and take seats. From there on, you’ll be told what to do and where to go. I’ll see you around.” He started off to gather a new group of first-term students, but before he had taken more than three steps, he was back again. “Let’s have lunch together with some of the others,” he said. “That okay with you?” “We’d love to,” the girls chorused. “Good. Meet you downstairs in front of the building at twelve. S’long!” Feeling no longer lost, but already a part of their new school community, Peggy and Amy proceeded into the little theater, found seats near the front, and started to introduce themselves to the other new students nearest them. The exchange of names, home towns, impressions, and ambitions occupied the next fifteen minutes or more until the dimming of the house lights and the illumination of the stage brought a hush to the small auditorium. The last few whispers died when Mr. Macaulay walked to stage center, bowed formally to the right, the left and the center, and then unexpectedly sat down on the apron of the stage with his legs dangling. “The bows were your formal welcome to the Academy, and I hope they take the place of a speech,” Mr. Macaulay began. “I hate speeches. From now on, we’re going to be informal and friendly, because that’s the only atmosphere in which people can get any work done. And you have a lot of work to do. You will have physical work in which you will learn to walk, to move, to dance a little, to stand up and to sit down. You may think you already know how to do these things, but you probably don’t. “You will have mental work,” he went on, “in which you will learn how to read a play, how to understand the motivation of a character and his relationship to the other characters. You will learn elocution, voice projection, and a dozen other things that have to do with speaking lines. You will learn the history of the theater, become familiar with the classic plays, and learn something about stage design and construction. In this last area, you will pick up the practical craft of making flats, painting scenery, and wiring lighting—a type of pedestrian work that has occupied the time of nearly every actor before he was allowed to appear even in a walk-on role. “And last, and perhaps most important,” Mr. Macaulay concluded, “you will learn that the informality and friendliness of the theater must not be mistaken for lack of discipline; in short, you will learn how to take direction!” Still seated on the edge of the stage, Mr. Macaulay called out his staff of instructors one by one, introduced each to the students, and gave a short history of each one’s background and qualifications for his or her work. All were seasoned professionals, and were very impressive to the students. Mr. Macaulay also explained that leading performers from the Broadway stage, movies, and television would make regular guest appearances at the Academy, as would outstanding directors, choreographers, designers, and playwrights. The size of the staff, in effect, was unlimited. After this, the individual instructors spoke, each saying a few words about his specialty and what he hoped to achieve in his course. Each one, it seemed to Peggy, opened up whole new areas of knowledge for her, until at the end she felt that she knew absolutely nothing at all, and wondered how she could ever have thought of herself as an actress. This was going to take a lot of work! After the meeting, the rest of the morning was spent in the routine of registration, getting class cards, finding out where the rooms were, getting locker assignments and book lists and, bit by bit, eliminating the first sense of confusion. Peggy and Amy, happily, were registered in the same class, and went together through the busy morning. Before they knew it, it was time for lunch with Pip Piper and “some of the others.” The others proved to be Connie Barnes, a cheerful comedienne who managed to be wonderfully attractive without being in the least pretty, and a dark, muscular, tough-looking young man with a face like either a private detective or a gangster in a grade-B movie, who was introduced by Pip as Mallory Seton. Much to Peggy’s surprise, when he spoke it was not at all the tough, New York sound she had expected, but a quiet, cultured English accent. “Call me Mal,” he said. “Mallory’s rather a mouthful, isn’t it? At least, it seems so here. At home, they used to call me ‘Mallory John’ all the time, so as not to confuse me with my father, who is named ‘Mallory Peter,’ but I can’t imagine anyone in America doing that. If I’d been brought up here, I’d probably have been called ‘Bud.’” Following Pip, the students walked around the corner to stop in front of a narrow delicatessen store. The sign on the window said, “Tables in the rear,” but Peggy could see from the crowd that clustered at the counter that there would be no chance of getting one. And besides, the place didn’t look wide enough to hold a table that would seat the five of them. “Oh dear,” she said, “I don’t think we’re going to be able to eat here, there are so many of us. Perhaps if Amy and I went somewhere else, you three would have a chance? We don’t want to make it difficult for you—” “Don’t be silly,” Pip cut in. “We didn’t expect to get a table here. You’re lucky if you can get a seat at the counter for one, much less a table for more than one. We’re going to buy sandwiches here and take them to the park.” Whipping out a notebook, Pip started to take orders and money, with frequent reference to the menu pasted to the delicatessen window. Then he plunged into the place and, in less time than Peggy thought possible, was back with a giant bag full of sandwiches and cold, bottled drinks. It was only two blocks to the southern boundary of Central Park, and once they had crossed Fifty-ninth Street and stepped into the tree-shaded, winding footpath, the city seemed to disappear behind them as if it had never been. At the foot of the first gentle hill, there was a small lake bordered by a bench-lined path. There were some empty benches, but Pip ignored them. “If you don’t mind walking a little farther,” he said, “we have a favorite spot on the opposite shore, where hardly anyone ever comes.” The path brought them across a small arched footbridge, through a thick copse, and out alongside a broad lawn which ran down to the lake’s shore. It was here that they chose to eat, sitting on the grass. “Now that we’re comfortably settled,” Mal said, “I have some great news for you, but first I think we ought to tell Peggy and Amy what we’re talking about, so they won’t feel left out of the conversation. Connie, you tell them about the play.” “Just a minute, Connie,” Pip interrupted. Then he turned to the newcomers. “Do you know what the term ‘Off-Broadway’ means?” “Why, yes, I think so,” Peggy replied. “It means you’re not using one of the regular, big theaters, and you charge less admission, and—” “More than that,” Pip broke in. “It’s generally an experimental group—though that doesn’t mean necessarily that it’s amateur, and one thing you can be sure of—it never has enough money. Everybody has to do a little of everything. Now go on, Connie.” “Well, the three of us are in that kind of group,” Connie started, “and we’re trying to produce a play off-Broadway. We’ve been working at it for about six months now, trying to raise the money and get a theater and do all the rest of the work that goes into these things. The play is called Lullaby, and it’s terrific, or it will be if it ever gets produced. Mal’s going to direct it, and I’m already cast as the comedienne, and Pip plays opposite me. There are a few more of us in it too, of course, and there’s Randy Brewster, who wrote it and is producing it. But I want to hear the great news before I talk any more. What is it, Mal?” “I don’t want it to be a shock,” Mal said, “so I’ll say it very slowly. Randy has raised almost all the money we need, and he’ll have the rest in a few days. It looks as if we’re actually going to get this on the boards this season—if we can find a theater for it!” “Wonderful!” Connie breathed. “Wow!” Pip exploded. “But where did he get the money? What happened? Do you know?” Connie asked. “You remember the reading we did at that Park Avenue penthouse a couple of months ago?” Mal asked. “The one where all the people seemed so cold and hostile, and we felt that we had made a miserable botch of it?” “Don’t tell me!” Connie said. “All right,” Mal said, his tough features composing themselves into a broad grin, “I won’t.” “It’s only an Americanism, Mal,” Pip said eagerly, “and it means ‘tell me.’” “Oh, I would never have guessed,” Mal said innocently. “Well, that was the reading that did it. Actually, those penthouse people weren’t hostile at all. It’s just what they consider good manners or something. Anyway, several of them came through, and we have almost all we need to put the play on. And Randy says that once you have most of the money, it gives other investors confidence, and they come along, too.” “How much do you need?” Peggy asked. “I shouldn’t think it would take so very much to do an off-Broadway play.” “Those were the good old days,” Pip said mournfully. “Nowadays you need at least ten thousand dollars, which is still practically nothing compared to what it costs to put a show on Broadway. You have to pay high rent for theaters now, if you can find one at all, and you have to spend money on costumes and sets, because the public expects more from off-Broadway than they used to. And you have to pay your actors, or else Equity, which is the actors’ union, won’t let you open. And you have to advertise, and print tickets, and pay for lighting equipment and a hundred other things. It all adds up to a lot of cash.” “Will the backers have a chance of making money?” Amy asked. “Well, it all depends on the type of theater we can find, and on the critical reviews of the play,” Mal explained. “If the reviews are good, and if the theater holds enough people, and if they keep coming for long enough, there’s a chance. If any one of those factors is lacking, then there isn’t a chance.” “What’s the play about?” Peggy asked. Connie frowned and said, “That’s kind of hard to answer. It’s a comedy, but at the same time it’s a serious play. I mean it’s serious in what it talks about, but funny in the way it says it. It’s mostly about a boy genius—” “That’s me!” Pip interrupted. “—who feels that the only way to get along in the world is not to let people know how smart he is, because people are jealous and suspicious of people who are too smart. He meets a girl genius—that’s me—who has come to the same conclusion. Both of them try to act like ordinary people, and to adjust to the world, because everybody says it’s best to conform and be just like everybody else—” “And one of the main problems is that neither one of them wants to let the other one know that he or she is any different,” Pip interrupted, “and that leads to a lot of misunderstanding and—” “And a lot of serious discussion under the comedy,” Mal said, “about whether or not conformity is any good, and what to do with outstanding people, and how they can be educated, and how to use them properly in the world. It’s a really first-rate play.” “It sounds wonderful!” Peggy said. “Has this Randy Brewster written any other plays? Who is he?” “Randy has written lots of others,” Mal answered, “but this is the first one that looks as if it’s going to be produced. He’s a good playwright, and I think he’s going to be a success. At least I hope so, because if the play is well received, we all have a chance of success too.” “What does he do besides write plays?” asked Amy. “He’s a dancer and a singer,” Connie said. “He’s been working in night clubs and on television, and he’s good, but he has a real talent as a writer, and we all agree that he’s wasted as just another song-and-dance man. If you want to see him, you can tune in to your television set on Saturday night. He’s got a spot on the Road Show hour.” “I haven’t got a television set,” Peggy answered, “though I guess I could find one to watch, but I’d like to do more than look in on this via TV. Is there anything I could do to help with the show?” “Well....” Mal began doubtfully, “we’re almost all cast for it now, and the few parts that are open aren’t exactly your type—” “Oh, no!” Peggy said. “I didn’t mean to ask for a part! Why, I’m just beginning here, and I don’t think I’d be good enough at all! No, I meant that if you need an extra pair of hands to make costumes, or to paint flats or to sell space in the theater program, I’m volunteering. I’ll run errands, or—” “Me, too!” Amy put in. “Can you use a pair of maids-of-all-work?” “We sure can!” Connie said eagerly. “That’s the hardest kind of people to find. I’m certainly glad that Pip thought to ask you two to lunch!” Mal looked quite relieved to find that he was not to be put in the position of having to refuse more actresses. Since word about the project had first gotten out around the Academy, he had been besieged with students who wanted to be in it, and the work of casting and at the same time not hurting the feelings of friends had been pretty difficult. As they strolled back to the Academy, Mal told the girls that there was to be a meeting of the theater group that evening at Connie’s apartment, and invited them to attend. “I know that everybody will be glad to meet you, and you’ll get a chance to read the play and to find out what we’re up against in trying to produce it.” After leaving their new friends in the school corridor, Amy and Peggy went off to their first elocution class, feeling as if they were really a part of the Academy and the new life around them, and looking forward eagerly to the meeting at Connie’s that night. |
|
