The following story is part of a larger collection and should be regarded as a work in progress
Adam Joachim Goldmann
Proverb no. 94 – “Any women who gladly accepts offers here and there must hang the blue cloak on her husband.” (We see a younger woman in a red gown drape a turquoise cape over an elderly man. Her eyes are downcast, her expression stern. He is hunched over, looking away, and clutches at a wooden cane. )
Everett McCay was known as the toughest Yankee businessman this side of the Atlantic. But, he had not entirely withstood the lure of culture and tradition during his long period of self-imposed exile, both in Britain and on the continent. Foremost among these effects was the deep love that he harbored for the European stage. He could be found most nights at one of the many playhouses that were scattered along the West End. He considered his tastes neither conservative nor modern: merely refined. As such he would not have them pigeonholed and resented the canonizing tendencies of certain theatrical societies. He was especially fond of Chekhov, Strindberg and Ibsen, but not – as was fashionable at the time among certain coxcombical critics - to the expense of Shaw and Wilde, and certainly not of the Bard himself. Still, he surprised not a few of his friends when, in his 60th year, the perennial bachelor determined to give his patronage in the form of nuptials. The lady in question was a gifted actress attached to an artistically progressive and modern troupe that McCay suspected of harboring socialist allegiances. She had recently started her career, but was such a presence, that even in the bit roles, which she was given, she managed to steal the performance away from her more established costars. She was still in the first flush of youth and her talent and beauty commingled to mesmerize and enchant audiences. Everett, who knew well the dangers of speculating, was certain that she was destined for great things. Otherwise, why would he have made it his business to support her fledgling career? He had, in the past placed his money on all sorts of ventures, gold digging in the Yukon and diamond harvesting in Africa. The days of great adventure and activity were behind him. Since the war broke out, he had confined himself to less daring enterprises, such as importing American cotton and wool to the allied countries. War was good for business, even if dealing in fabrics and dealing in jewelry were not equally profitable. And though he had, of late, parted with more capital that was his wont, he still had more than a little to gamble on an ingénue.
An old business associate who knew of McCay’s love for the theater had recommended the small theater and it’s troupe, which called itself the Laughing Cock. McCay had neglected to find the small stage near Charing Cross, where nightly a small band of actors, lead by their French director Pierre Jalousie night-after-night brought to life intriguing entertainments in innovative and inventive productions. McCay instead found himself at a fundraiser dinner for the Laughing Cock. McCay, though unused to the relative frugality and squalor of the theater, with its modest dimensions, seemed untroubled by the lack of ornament and formality. The table was set upon the stage and McCay found that he shared company with some wealthy eccentrics – attired as elegantly as he - who bankrolled the theatres and made its patronage their business, and the varied members of the troupe, who ranged in age from fourteen to fifty seven.
At dinner, he sat next to one of the troupe’s most recent additions and youngest members, Lynn Callow, a self-possessed Manchesterian. Quite without realizing it, the girl worked her charms on the aging businessman, who had recently been prone to meditating on mortality and had been more and more in want of steady companionship. As far as Lynn could tell, that first meeting was unmarked by anything out of the ordinary. And little would either party at the time have suspected what would come of that chance meeting three short months later.
Everett was initially taken with Lynn’s feminine Britishness: the deep flush on her pallid cheeks; her musky and commanding voice; her heightened politesse (almost to the point of affectation). For her part, Lynn was impressed by the dapper old man’s hawk-like eyes and his equally cunning knowledge of the theater. Lynn left by telling Everett to stop by the theater to catch her in the latest diversion of some foppish Frenchman which would to go up later that month. Indeed, our dear McCay made good on his promise and secured a place in the second row, where he could admire his ingénue, not once, but on four separate evenings. On each of these, he was arrayed in the antiquated manner of a generation ago, for Everett had no wish to ape youthful fashions. He also brought with him a bouquet for the ravishing comedienne, who, as he watched enraptured from the third row, brought to mind the Sarah Bernhard he knew from his career as a young man.
After the performance, Lynn would receive him cordially in her dressing room. She could tell that the squalor and disarray of the room, which so displeased her, worked a kind of magic on her aging admirer. He would lean against the heating pole and look around with childish wonder at the costumes hanging awkwardly from a half-broken rack, or at the basket of rhinestones and tangled junk jewelry in the corner. His eyes would drift to her dressing table, whereupon lay tubs of cheap theatrical makeup. McCay fixed his gaze on these accoutrements and beauty-enhancers: this stock-and-trade of all theatrical enterprises. She let him be present as she washed her false face away. Especially, after witnessing her onstage transformation, these ablutions took on an unreal quality. Even after several times witnessing them, McCay still had a tough time determining for himself, which one seemed more convincing.
When it became apparent that these visits were a ritual that McCay had no intention of doing without, Lynn permitted herself to take tea and cake with him. She even allowed him to take her arm in his as they walked to the lobby of the Metropole. Black tea had become scarce ever since the start of the war, and Lynn had trained herself to enjoy other, herbal variety. The Metropole, with its distinguished clientele was among the few establishments still to serve it, although at what a price! But what was dear for Lynn was the simplest expenditure for McCay. How good it was to be able to savor a late night cup of Earl Grey again! She found that the drink had a more calming and focusing effect of her than it had in the past. It made her both alert to her interlocutor’s hawkish remarks and comfortable in his severe presence.
It was late one evening, walking out of the café that McCay made a little speech. It had been with some reluctance that they traded the red velvet of the Metropole for the grey asphalt of the promenade along the Thames. This speech of McCay’s, it must be admitted, was not entirely unexpected by Lynn. Indeed so many of their conversations had started out similarly, with observations and declamations concerning the ills of bachelorhood. But it surprised her not a little when, after expounding rather at length his rich yet solitary existence, he brought up the subject of matrimony.
“I don’t expect your love, but I would hope for your fidelity and companionship,” he said with the direct and unfailing conviction of the businessman that he was. He spoke no further on the subject that evening and she, somewhat taken aback by his directness, chose to feign disinterest and allowed her eyes to focus on passing tug, before changing the subject rather flippantly: as is she hadn’t heard at all.
During their next few sessions, McCay never directly broached the topic, but like a skilled pilot, would often approach it, only to land his aircraft on a neighboring shore. Lynn felt it whenever he dropped little hints now and again: a backwards glance at an affectionate couple in the corner, enjoying a drink together, an off-putting praise of Lynn’s beauty. But the very point itself he managed to efficiently circumambulate.
Lynn was intrigued by the man’s methods and was certain that he would return eventually to the proposition. She felt that an air of expectation hung over all their conversations like a thick curtain and waited with almost uncontainable impatience to see what next he would do. Curiosity and anticipation, more than proper eagerness, accounted for these uncomfortable yet not wholly unpleasant sensations.
One evening as they walked, arm in arm, along the Strand, there came a prolonged lull in their conversation. The silence lasted a little eternity, producing a void that carriages or passersby chose to fill. Lynn could hear her neck turning as she tentatively eyed Everett. His gaze was directed past her, at the windows of closing shops: whatever awkwardness there was in the situation, seemed entirely on her side. Lying down at night, she kept adjusting her pillow and pulled the blankets up to her eyes. She was aware not only of her own uncertainty, but the feeling that she was being watched and evaluated by a discerning audience. She felt herself in the midst of a drama. The first act was about to draw to a close. It remained to be seen whether it was a comedy or a tragedy she was acting.
After all the kindness that McCay had hitherto shown her, Lynn made the somewhat radical decision to reciprocate. It was bold of her, for she knew that he would take the gesture – for better or worse – as a sign of encouragement. The Laughing Cock was putting on Ubu Roi. On the eve of the first performance, she invited McCay to join the cast for drinks at a pub in the Strand. She extended this invitation, two days before the premiere. This added to her natural anxiety about taking on a new role. She couldn’t foresee whether McCay’s presence that evening would be a burden or a relief. Of course, he would be the picture of discretion For even when he made love to her, her air was so unchanged, so unforced, natural and unassuming that it came on her unawares, dawned, that is, that his true intent lay forever imbedded only slightly beneath the surface, beneath the thinnest layer of subterfuge – no, not that – but a thin coating of paint, perhaps - she knew that nothing he did could ever make her uncomfortable. His manners were so refined and old-fashioned and foreign that she felt secure with him in a way she hadn’t known since childhood. So, why should she be so apprehensive about McCay’s joining them after the show?
Lynn was used to men throwing themselves at her, pleading for her good graces, weeping protestations of love and devotion. To a certain measure, these affections flattered her, but they certainly had a way of becoming very quickly nagging. McCay was as different from Lynn’s accustomed suitors as a stately Chopin polonaise from Stravinsky’s provocations. Lynn would gladly take the music of her youth over modern experiments any day. If these suitors all sang in the overblown style of Tristan and Lohengrin, then McCay was the soft countertenor voice of Bach’s “Erbarme dich.” A musical figuration should occur to Lynn precisely because of an episode from her adolescence involving a young German composer who’d despaired over her, threatening even to end his life. Though this encounter had been singular in both its ferocity and tenderness, it had become the one by which she’d judged all subsequent attachments.
Then, truth be told, she didn’t so much mind the hot-blooded ones as she did the obsequious ones, the haughty nouveau riche, preening themselves for the bourse or the commons. McCay was neither hot-blooded nor obsequious and perhaps this aspect – so typically American, she considered – was what endeared her to him. He spoke his mind, certainly; Americans were good at that. But moreover, he knew better than anyone she’d ever known, when to lay down his cards and when to make a subterfuge. This balance of honesty and discretion was the most unique quality that she found in McCay and she admired him greatly for it. He was shrewd, no doubt, and she set great faith in his store of knowledge and greatness of taste. Certainly, the specter of his income had some place in the overall assessment of his offer, but Lynn let herself be persuaded by such a host of other considerations, that the promise of security seemed merely a last, minor enticement. It was thus that Lynn was fully prepared to answer “Yes” when McCay formally made his offer at the end of the evening of pleasant and none-too-excessive drink.
Marriage meant a radical change in pace for McCay. He was accustomed to being the efficient and hardworking entrepreneur during the daylight hours and settling down in the theater district for an evening’s entertainment. However, he soon found that this design for living, which had hitherto carried him his entire adult life, was an awkward fit with another member of humanity to care for. McCay, who considered his long career full of material finery and adventure was wholly unprepared for how many new and wondrous things were in an instant, it seemed, opened to him. He could never have imagined the myriad pleasures of living with and for somebody other than himself. The long war had come to an end, fortuitously, shortly before their marriage, and the doors of Europe were swung open to Lynn for the first time. The couple spent their honeymoon in Rome and Venice, two cities that McCay knew well from his business before the war. The devastation that the war had wreaked on these capitals went unnoticed by McCay, who found their charm enhanced by the addition of new ruins and decay. He had toured the continent countless times, but the magnificence of old Europe had never struck him fully, he considered, as it did now. As he passed by the sites and monuments so familiar to him, he found it incomprehensible that he should have failed to notice the grandeur and majesty that they offered the eye and the soul. At his age, he could hardly have imagined how much surprise this old world still held for him.
When the couple returned from their peripatetic wanderings, McCay resolved to leave the world of commerce: a thing that none of his acquaintances would have though him capable of. Instead of overseeing mergers and signing contracts, he spent his days in Lynn’s delightful company. They made themselves regulars at the finest restaurants, jewelers and clothiers of London. In the evening, Lynn would don the finery that her husband lavished on her for the theater, the symphony and the opera. It wasn’t as if Lynn every asked or expected for these things, but McCay seemed positively incapable of doing without presenting her with constant gifts. Nor did she demand he spend his days at the market with her, but was grateful for his dotage, affection and generosity. She had no intentions of quitting her career as an actress and merely scaled back her involvement with the Laughing Cock. She had designs to make a full and triumphant return to the stage.
When summer arrived, McCay received a cable from Chicago. It was from his nephew Philip Anderson. The missive announced that the boy was headed for London, where he had been appointed to be visiting dramaturge at the Old Vic. Previously, Anderson had achieved considerable renown on the American stage by popularizing dramas of the Restoration period, which had been long out of fashion and was seeing a current revival of interest, no doubt influenced by the success of Shaw’s Pygmalion.
McCay was delighted to received word of his nephew’s arrival and suggested that they dine together the following week. Philip showed up with his friend Quentin Petronius, a wealthy Italian who had shared Phillip’s lodgings in New York and had followed him, for no apparent reason save ennui, to London. Uncle and nephew gave each other a warm greeting. It had been too long – this, both could agree on. McCay presented Lynn, who had worn the pearls that McCay had recently given her for their six-month anniversary, to the ever-so-refined and polite Philip, who placed a gentlemanly kiss on her gloved hand. Quentin shook hands with McCay insipidly and, in recognition of the actress, merely bowed at a slight angle. As goose was served, Everett explained to Lynn how Philip had waged war against his father, a doctor of local fame, who had considered his son’s interest in the theater amusing at best. At the end of his college years, Philip boldly announced that he intended to devote his life to the stage, rather than medicine. Anderson senior threatened to turn him out, but Philip would not give him this satisfaction and relocated to New York.
On the Lower East Side, he worked as a stagehand at the Volksbiene and performed in vaudeville and burlesque. Eventually, Philip got a shot at directing: a small neighborhood production of As You Like It that attracted the notice of the Herald’s drama critic. Philip was invited to work for the Bowery Theater where he quickly cemented his reputation with some more Shakespeare productions. From Chicago, McCay had received the news of his nephew’s great successes with much excitement and pride; indeed, he alone among Philip’s relatives had acknowledged the boy’s artistic proclivities as ought worthy of being attended to and supported. On the eve of his escape to New York, Philip had appeared at his uncle’s house asking for some money to sustain him through a week of finding employment. McCay had given freely, without the thought of making any profit. McCay was, therefore, all the more delighted and surprised to find the artistic dividends such a modest investment had yielded. To Lynn, it was an odd story of America: from riches to rags.
Ever since receiving news of his nephew’s arrival, McCay had gone on about the boy nonstop. He had only the finest things to say about this young man and Lynn formulated in her mind that his talents must be night limitless. It was not surprising, then, that she was eager to finally meet Mr. Anderson. Although, like McCay, she could’ve done without the company of queer Mr. Petronius, who, they learnt that night was cohabiting his friend’s flat on Russell Street, a stone’s throw from the Old Vic.
During the meal, Quentin was preternaturally quiet and inattentive. He barely lifted his eyes from his plate. In those rare instances in which he determined to look up, there was such an absent and fatigued look in his face that the McCays wondered if he was seriously ill. But it was easy to ignore this peculiar fellow, due in part to Philip’s exciting and engaging tone. He went on about his grand plans for the coming season with a shrewd and punchy sense that Lynn felt certain he had inherited from his uncle (or where all Americans like that?). McCay mentioned his wife’s acting career and Philip asked the lady about her work with the Laughing Cock, which she had, since her marriage, somewhat neglected. In her four months of wedded life, she had assumed only one role: a poorly received Juliet.
Philip seemed eager to learn of his aunt’s involvement with the theater, and was perhaps a little too forward in suggestion that she drop by the Old Vic, where they needed to cast a few more roles in Wycherly’s The Country Wife, which was to be the first production of the coming season. McCay took no offence at the suggestion and urged his wife to resume her acting career under the guidance of his nephew.
“Just think,” said McCay in the cab home, “The Old Vic. Now that’s a real theater. I don’t mean that the Cock isn’t…but this is something established we’re talking about. You can’t really compare them, can you?” Lynn was inclined to agree and showed up the following morning at the theater, where she landed a bit part as a maid.
She studied her role – a small but crucial one – religiously, with the intensity and conviction that this might actually lead her to the sort of success she‘d been imagining for herself since she arrived in London at the age of 19 and tentatively joined with the provocateurs at the Laughing Cock. It was the first time that McCay had been able to observe Lynn’s every step in the process of creating a role. Her recent turn Juliet hadn’t required much work as she had performed Juliet in the past. But it was another thing for Lynn to ease into a well-worn garment and quite another all together to fit into new ones. Everett determined to live it with her as closely as possible without invading on her creative territory. Towards this end, he studied the play closely and whatever information there was available regarding its production history and reception.
The Country Wife, a vital player in a theatrical tradition long out of fashion, constituted a gap in McCay’s aesthetic education. Though he had done his undergraduate work in English literature at Princeton, the whole gamut of Restoration dramatists had been passed over. America at the turn of the century was still prurient enough to consider playwrights such at Etherege, Congreve and Wycherly far too scandalous in their approach and attitudes towards marriage and infidelity. Such themes at the time were considered more than in bad taste, they were thought positively immoral and harmful to society. As Lynn would retire to her room to practice her limes, McCay sat in the library, immersing himself in the world of seventeenth century English drama.
The Country Wife appealed to McCay not least for its exaggerated characters: a serial philanderer who claimed to be a eunuch to put his rivals at ease about being alone with their wives; one husband who promotes his own cuckoldry by being so absurdly without suspicion; another whose overzealous attempts at safeguarding his wife make him the play’s first cuckold. Such characters could only exist in the world of a brand of vulgar comedy that had been out of fashion for nearly 200 years.
Though her character had no more that thirty lines in all, Lynn gave the greatest consideration to every word. Even with the simplest “yes” or “no,” she struggled and experimented to find the correct voice. The modulated her tone, tossed in a laugh here and there, or bit her hand before reciting a line. McCay was fascinated by these false gestures, which he had observed in his wife so often when they were meant in earnest and marveled that she could replicate the same motions and patterns of speech so convincingly.
As much as he learnt from this solo preparation, McCay felt he couldn’t take part fully in the incarnation without being present at rehearsals, which often kept Lynn away from his for the entire day. This, however, he didn’t dare to suggest. Not least, because he would have hated to cause Lynn any anxiety. No, the way to go about it would be to enter unannounced and sit where there was no chance that Lynn could possibly make him out.
About two weeks before the show was to go up, the production lost its two leads. First, the Country Wife herself failed to show at rehearsals for an entire week. Anderson and Petronius finally traced her to her mother’s estate in Rye, where she had disappeared to, in the hopes of hiding an embarrassing pregnancy. The note she had meant to leave Philip turned up in the script that her co-star, the play’s philandering eunuch was using. Outraged by the suggestion that this was in some way his fault, the actor threw his wig down on the floor and stormed out of the theater. Philip was in a tight corner. Lynn was the only other member of the cast who knew the country wife’s lines by heart and so was given the role. Philip himself would star opposite her as Harry Horner, the rakish protagonist. While irregular in the highest degree, none of this struck McCay as peculiar. Quite the contrary, he was delighted to learn that his wife would be the leading lady of the evening.
Lynn immersed herself for a second time in her far meatier role. She transferred out of the silly maid’s costume and into the shoes of a naïve and over-guarded young bride. The rehearsals grew longer; often, McCay would pick her up from the theater close to midnight. Addition rehearsals were scheduled for Sundays, an arrangement that McCay accepted begrudgingly, but ultimately endorsed, since it was all in service of his wife’s art.
At the same time, his curiosity at attending these rehearsals intensified with each passing day. He resolved not to await his wife’s call one evening and arrive at the theater deliberately early. As he entered the auditorium, his eyes met Petronius’. The Italian was hunched over a sewing machine and appeared to be making alterations to the costumes. “If you’re looking for your wife, she’s not here,” he said.
McCay was slightly unnerved less by what the man had said and more by how he had said it. He looked at the stage, where five actors were performing a scene. He noted Philip’s absence from the scene, was surprised at first, but corrected this impression when he heard a bit of the dialogue and recalled that his character did not appear in the scene they were practicing. “Is my wife backstage?” McCay opened his mouth to ask. Just then, however, a high-pitched cackled erupted offstage. The strange timbre threw McCay at first, but he soon recognized it as the voice of his wife. This impression was soon verified visually when Lynn emerged from stage right, swaggering drunkenly and dressed as a man. Philip followed soon after, speaking his lines and directing her to act more rugged and boyish. They both seemed amused at the scene and the attempts to make Lynn more masculine. Philip interrupted the performance to instruct Lynn more completely to stand properly. He planted her feet firmly apart on the stage and sent her chest out by gripping her violently by the back.
McCay was a little baffled by the physicality of his directing style and he hoped that Lynn’s delicate boy could withstand this rough treatment. He sat down in the back of the theater and watched the scene – which he couldn’t remember from the play - unfold. But soon, his eyes flashed with recognition and he felt he understood the effect that Philip was aiming for. Once it made sense and fit together in the context of the scene, McCay was entirely without worry at the manhandling of his wife. He was actually almost entirely lost in the scene when Petronius announced with a force that made them all flinch, “Stop the scene Philip. We have a visitor.”
McCay got up promptly and waited as Philip, who seemed surprised to see his uncle, hopped offstage and greeted him with warmth and politeness. McCay was astonished to see how greatly the young man perspired. “We were just about to wrap up for the day.” He was almost out of breath and made it sound like an apology. Before Philip turned away, McCay caught the scent of alcohol. He puzzled over this for a minute, while his wife, hastily changed into her ordinary clothes, came towards him. She kissed his cheek affectionately and they exited to the street.
“I thought I would surprise you today,” he offered as he held the door of the cab open for her.
“Yes,” was all she could respond.
“And are you surprised?” he further ventured.
“Quite,” came her dry reply, and mingled with the alcohol that he detected on her breath.
“Do you drink often at rehearsals?’ he asked with a little humor.
“Only where the script calls for it,” came her sensible reply.
McCay put his arm around her and she leaned towards him. She felt secure in his grasp.
“Were Philip and you rehearsing the scene backstage?” he asked.
“Did that concern you?”
“No.” The answer was definite. “But Petronius seemed pretty unhappy about it,” he ventured with laughter in his voice. She joined in with a noise not unlike the onstage cackle he’d heard before.
“Well, Quentin can go to Hell!” she exclaimed triumphantly and kissed her husband full on the mouth.
The day of the premiere was the McCay’s sixth-month wedding anniversary. They had gone out to dinner the night before and Everett had presented Lynn a pair of sapphire earrings which she promised to wear for at least part of the evening’s performance. Lynn had gone off to rehearsals by the time that McCay awoke. Draped across the sofa in the living room was a dark blue wool overcoat from Harrod’s and a fond note from his wife. He tried it on for size and was astonished to find that it fit him to a T. “How well, she knows me,” he thought happily.
Lynn had begged her husband not to surprise her at the theater before curtain, a wish that he respected. When he arrived at the Old Vic half an hour early, he was astonished to find that the theater had almost entirely filled up. He found his seat in the front row, assumed it, and tilted his head left and right, excited and proud that so many of London’s brightest had turned out to see his wife perform the role of Margaret Pinchwife. He had never desired for her to be an object of envy to other men. Still, he could not help feeling himself inflate as he took stock of his surroundings and anticipated the effect that Lynn was bound to have on her public.
The play provoked many gasps from the audience, not least for the built-in vulgarity of the situations and the profane language. But they balked and laughed in equal measure, often from having their expectations of decorum smashed to bits. Even McCay, who had read the play numerous times, was occasionally caught off-guard by the way that the play’s themes were realized onstage. For him, the greatest and most enticing attraction was Lynn. He could scarce believe that she stood so close by to him yet so transformed, utterly transformed into the sensuous naïf of the eponymous character. She brought effortless grace and coy appetite to her every onstage moment. McCay reflected that Philip could scarce have found a better replacement; they seemed so utterly convincing together.
As McCay witnessed Margaret Pinchwife’s incrementally lurid seduction, he became physically uncomfortable. He attributed these feelings to the effectiveness of his wife’s acting and felt that the audience was likewise affected. Starting with the scene in which she first appears disguised as a boy, only to be wooed away from her husband by the serial philanderer, McCay could not stop from wincing at every onstage kiss and caress. By the lurid denouement in act five, where the husband hands his wife over to his rival unawares, McCay felt renewed indignation and was certain that he sensed a similar sentiment in the rest of the crowd as well. Was this testament to his wife’s acting abilities, he wondered, or merely evidence that the play was inflammatory and perhaps unsuitable to be performed? He continued to ponder this well into the fifth act, almost losing the thread of the play altogether. His attention was again alerted, however, when Lynn appeared unexpectedly from under a veil and disappeared with Philip behind a large curtain. They dashed off with such urgency that McCay was certain that the lewd suggestion was lost on no one. Throughout the next scene, faint grunts and moans emanated from backstage: noises that might have sounded perfectly natural to anyone else. But McCay reasoned that he knew better. This awareness had the peculiar effect of paradoxically curing him of his unease, but making it impossible for him to believe in the play any longer. It was as if the actors had crossed over into the world of hyperbole and made the play’s vulgarity no longer authentic, no longer disturbing. McCay received a further shock when Lynn emerged from her tryst, attired in the same uniform, except that her the sparkle of the sapphires that she had finally chosen to don. McCay was glad to think that he himself had provided the performance’s finishing touch.
They were leaving the theater when McCay heaved a little and fell on his walking stick. He felt his legs begin to ache for the first time in a long while. He buckled slightly under the weight of brittle bones and arched his back pitifully. It took a few moments for Lynn to attend to him. She gripped his shoulders as they slipped away from her. She felt the soft wool between her palms and she drew the coat up and draped it over her husband. He stared at his head, how his hat rested awkwardly askew wondering what it was she saw. The foghorn of a passing ship resounded through the night.
“Philip,” he spoke as if the foghorn had called up the name. “I must say that I had my doubts about him that day I attended rehearsal: doubts with regard to his theatrical ideas, his practices. But I see his methods are solid. They work. And they worked best for you, my dear. He really managed to bring out something in you that I hadn’t seen before.” She listened absented, a little troubled by his tone, perhaps. He stayed with his back facing her, leaning on the walking stick. He needed a moment to catch his breath. Soon they were walking towards Charing Cross. It was odd that there was no cab in sight. So, on they walked. It was late and they had precious little company, mostly younger couples hurrying along the cobblestones, no doubt on their way to some gathering or other. “Philip,” he pronounced the name with such intensity, making the Ph sound as if it needed to be exorcised from his mouth. “He really brought out the best in you, I mean I could sense that he was committed: committed as deeply as you were.”
A cab stopped shortly in front of them and a giggling couple emerged. They dashed by and disappeared laughing into the obfuscating blanket of night. Lynn’ eyes followed them intently until they disappeared. She looked up at the buildings, imagining all the happy people, like the couple that had just seen, having drinks together. They would stay up for hours, possibly till dawn, carousing and merrymaking. They entered the cab and sat still until McCay picked up.
“You were stunning,” McCay went on praising her rather absently; the type of praise one speaks of one who isn’t present. “I’d say that it was a near-triumph.” At this Lynn’s ears pricked up and she took interest. “How near, dear?” she raised her pretty voice. “Quite. Quite.” Silence.
“Then again” - he continued - “I suppose I am biased unfairly. I suppose that my beef is not - cannot be - shared by the rest of your audience. It’s funny, actually, a funny bit of criticism.” Lynn was intrigued and leaned closer to her husband, the sounds of the carousers above them getting louder. “What’s the matter?” Her concern was genuine, so he could make out. “Well, it’s a minor point, a very minor matter and I beg you not to take it the wrong way, or anything like that. It’s just that you showed such a degree of naturalism, did your gloriously witty lines such justice: well, I was so involved, you see. And then, after all of this, that one scene.” He paused to catch his breath. “What scene?” “Oh, the one were your husband leads you to Philip – Horner I mean. Yes, and you’re offstage, while Horner has his way with you…” “To what did you object,” she asked innocently enough. “Nothing that major, I suppose. Which is why I call it a trifle. But the way you vocalized, the sounds coming from offstage. They just rang false. Certainly, though, I am your husband. I know very well what sounds are and are not in your natural repertoire.”
Lynn thought of something with which to respond, but the flush in her cheeks would not permit her to divulge. She was, therefore, amply surprised when she heard Everett voice her very own thoughts. “I know its silly to object when, after all, you’re only playing a part.”
As their cab sped on through the darkened streets, neither spoke further. McCay absently fumbled in his waistcoat for his pocket watch. He clutched gently at the chain and followed it to the silver watch. It sprung open and McCay studied the stylish face for some moments and slipped in back into the coat, not realizing that the timepiece had stopped.
