  “Peggy, honey, it just can’t be as bad as all that!” “You don’t know!” Peggy was in her dressing gown, stretched across her bed, still thinking about the audition that morning. “I hardly got out five lines before he stopped me. Honestly, I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.” “You can’t tell,” Amy said. “Maybe he didn’t have to hear any more.” “I’m sure he didn’t,” Peggy replied bitterly. “I’m sure he heard all he wanted. More than he wanted.” She got up and walked distractedly over to the window. “Whatever made me think I could be an actress! I ought to have my head examined!” “You are an actress,” Amy said stoutly. “And a darned good one.” Peggy whirled on her angrily. “You wouldn’t say that if you could have heard me. I must have sounded like an old crow!” Amy shook her head. “You certainly are taking this hard,” she said. “I can’t do a thing to cheer you up.” “Oh, Amy.” Peggy went over to her roommate and took her by the hand. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just that—that—oh, I don’t know.” “I wish I’d seen you,” Amy declared. Peggy looked at her in surprise. “Why? What could you have done?” “I just think you’re exaggerating, that’s all. But I can’t convince you because I wasn’t there.” “Well, thanks anyway, but I’m not.” Peggy sat down and closed her eyes. “You’d better get dressed,” Amy said after a pause. Peggy opened one eye. “What for?” “You have to eat, don’t you? I bet you didn’t have any lunch.” “I had a bite,” Peggy said listlessly. “But I’m not hungry right now. You go on.” “Not without you.” “No, please go.” Peggy sat up and looked at Amy earnestly. “Really, I wouldn’t mind being alone for a little while. I’ve got some thinking to do.” “Sometimes two heads are better than one.” Peggy shook her head doubtfully. “Not on this problem,” she said. “I’ve got to decide whether to stay in New York.” Amy jumped to her feet. “Peggy!” she cried. “That’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard!” “But what’s the sense in beating my brains out?” “Oh, Peggy!” It was Amy’s turn to look distracted. “What would you do? Where would you go?” “Do?” Peggy said vacantly. “I guess I’d go back home and do what Dad wanted me to do all along. Be a schoolteacher.” “You wouldn’t be happy,” Amy said gently. “No,” Peggy admitted. “I suppose I wouldn’t. But it would be better than this.” Amy crossed the room with firm strides and sat down on the bed beside Peggy. Her usually cheerful face was set in a serious line. “Now you listen to me, Peggy Lane,” she said severely. “I don’t know how you read today and I don’t care. The important thing is that this was your very first audition for an important play. Of course, you were nervous. Who wouldn’t be? Maybe you didn’t do as well as you thought you could, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. Two nights ago, I was the one who wanted to quit, and remember what you said to me then. You told me to face up to what happened and not let it get me down. And now here you’re doing the very thing you warned me against.” “Yes, but Amy,” Peggy said, “tell me something, frankly.” “What is it?” Peggy paused to choose her words with care. “Supposing—just suppose now, you discovered you didn’t have any talent—” Amy tossed her head angrily. “Oh, Peggy!” she cried reproachfully. “Now don’t interrupt,” Peggy said. “Just let me finish and answer my question. If you found out you didn’t have any talent as an actress, would you still try to break into the theater? Or would you give it up, much as you loved it?” Amy stared at her thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Peggy,” she said. “I honestly don’t know. What made you think of that?” “I saw a girl today,” Peggy said. “She read at the audition. Craig Claiborne stopped her before she could say three words—” “There, you see!” Amy interrupted triumphantly. “You did better than that!” Peggy smiled wanly. “Yes, but not much. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that Claiborne was right in stopping her. She was no good at all.” She tucked her legs underneath her and leaned forward. “Now here’s a girl,” Peggy went on, “who obviously thinks she’s got ability. But actually she doesn’t. Isn’t she just deluding herself by going on?” Amy shrugged. “You never know. She might get better.” Peggy shook her head emphatically. “Not a chance in the world. You can tell about some people. And, in a strange sort of way, I think she knew it, too. You should have seen her face when Claiborne told her she could go. It was as if she had heard the same thing so many times.” “Well, how does all this apply to you?” Amy asked. “I’m getting to that. How many girls want to be actresses, do you think?” Amy thought for a moment. “Thousands, I guess.” “And a lot of them have some talent,” Peggy continued eagerly. “They take part in school plays and church pageants and all that sort of thing. Everybody tells them how good they are, and pretty soon they begin to believe them. But Amy! What a difference between being the best actress in your home town and competing in New York!” “Don’t I know it!” Amy sighed. “Well, then,” Peggy said, “supposing I’m one of those girls—” She held up her hand. “Now don’t interrupt again,” she warned. “One of those girls who has a certain amount of ability, but not enough to make the grade in the professional theater. In that case, I think I owe it to myself to go back home. Let me act if I want to, but in the local little theater group—not as a starving outsider in New York. Right?” “I guess so,” Amy agreed quietly. “But only if you’re convinced you don’t have the talent.” “And that’s what I have to figure out,” Peggy said. “I’m just not sure.” Further discussion was interrupted by a soft knock. “Come in,” the girls chorused. The door swung open to reveal May Berriman standing in the hall with a tray in her hands. “Room service,” she announced as she shouldered her way inside. “Would you mind clearing off that dresser so I can put down the tray?” “May!” Peggy cried. “What’s all this for?” “Custom of the house,” May replied loftily as she set down her tray. “We do it whenever a girl has her first big audition. We figure that she’s too exhausted to go out and eat afterward.” “I don’t believe it,” Peggy said. “Well, you’re right,” May replied dryly. “But I heard you had a fit of the blues, and I thought this might help. How do you feel?” “She feels terrible,” Amy answered. “She’s the original Calamity Jane.” “Uh huh.” May nodded. “Feeling sorry for yourself, eh? Here, try some of this soup.” She looked at Peggy sharply. “What’s the matter? Did you walk out on the stage with two left feet?” Peggy smiled briefly. “That’s just about it. I did a dreadful job.” May put a plate of soup on Peggy’s lap. “Who said so?” she demanded brusquely. “Nobody had to tell me,” Peggy said. “I was there. He stopped me after five lines.” May whistled admiringly. “Five lines! Say, that’s pretty good. I remember my first audition—they didn’t even let me take a deep breath.” “Come on!” “I’m not joking. Tell me, were your legs shaking?” Peggy laughed. “I didn’t think I could make it to the stage.” “I know the feeling. It’s like trying to walk across a plate of Jello. Well,” May said cheerfully, “you’ve got all the right symptoms. You should recover in a day or two.” “In a day or two she might be gone,” Amy blurted out. “What?” May turned to Amy in blank amazement. “What do you mean?” “She’s thinking of going back home,” Amy said. “She doesn’t think she’s got enough talent.” May’s expression hardened as she stared at Peggy. “Well!” she said at last. “Maybe she’s right.” “May!” came Amy’s shocked voice. “I mean it,” May said coldly. “There’s no room for anyone in the theater without confidence.” She stalked over to the dresser and began taking dishes off the tray. Amy and Peggy looked at each other in surprise. Amy was the first to break the silence. “But, May,” she faltered, “couldn’t you—I mean, don’t you think—” “That she should stay?” May shook her head disdainfully. “Not if she doesn’t think so.” The older woman turned and faced the two girls. “Look here, you two. Whenever an actor or actress gets up on a stage in front of thousands of people, he’s simply got to have confidence in himself. He’s got to think that he’s the only person in the world who can play the part. If he didn’t”—May threw up her hands—“he’d have no business being in the theater.” May walked over to Amy’s bed and sat down. “That doesn’t mean you have to be vain and egotistical. Somebody like Katherine Nelson, for example. She thinks the sun rises and sets for her own personal enjoyment. Personally, I think her acting suffers because of her attitude, and certainly she’s not a very attractive human being. No, what I’m talking about is something quite different. It’s a quiet pride in your own craft and ability. That’s the quality you need.” May fixed Peggy with a steady stare. “I know what’s wrong with you, young lady. You just want somebody to tell you how good you are. Well, that’s not surprising. We all need approval. But in the theater, we don’t always get it when we want it, and that means we’ve got to be tough enough to keep on going no matter what people say. I didn’t say hard, I said tough. There’s a big difference. Peggy, look at me.” The young girl raised her eyes. “I think you’re a good actress. I can’t tell you how good, because that depends on you. It depends on how hard you’re willing to work and how fast you learn. But you have the basic equipment to make it.” May raised a finger to emphasize her point. “Even so, that’s still not enough. You have to want to do it and you have to have a deep faith that you can do it. Tell me, Peggy, do you think you could play the part of the daughter in Innocent Laughter if you had to? Tell me honestly now.” Peggy nodded briefly. “Yes,” she said with quiet conviction. “I know I could.” May sighed and stood up. “Then why do you want to leave New York? Innocent Laughter isn’t the only play you’re ever going to audition for. And the next time you’ll do better. Let’s have a little backbone, Peggy.” Peggy sat staring at May for a moment, then flung herself into the older woman’s arms. “Oh, May!” she said. “You’re right. I was being—I don’t know what.” “There, there,” May said soothingly, stroking the girl’s hair. “You’re all right, Peggy. You just needed somebody to talk tough.” She put her hands on Peggy’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. “No more of this talk about going home. Promise?” Peggy nodded. “I promise,” she said with a laugh. “Good girl. Go ahead and have a cry if you want. It’ll do you good. But don’t forget to eat some supper.” She started to pat Peggy’s hand, but stopped as the telephone buzzer squawked unexpectedly. “Oh, oh,” May said. “Better not have that cry after all. Somebody wants to talk to you.” “I’ll go,” Amy cried, going toward the door. They could hear her footsteps echoing down the hallway. The next instant, it seemed, they heard them running back to the room at what sounded like full speed. Amy appeared at the doorway, her face flushed with excitement and her eyes bright. “Peggy!” she almost screamed. “You got it! You got it!” For a moment it didn’t register. “Got what?” Peggy stammered. “The part!” Amy danced into the room and made a grab for Peggy. “Hurry up! It’s Peter Grey! He’s downstairs in the living room with Pam Mundy. He told me to tell you that they’re ready to offer you the part of general understudy in Innocent Laughter. He wants to talk to you about it right now. Oh, Peggy, Peggy! All that worrying for nothing. You got the part!” |
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