Authors: John Jakes
“Whittaker,” someone hissed.
“Whittaker,” Bascom repeated without a blink. “Modesty would force me to deny a great part of it, were it not for one fact. The members of my troupe have made Bascom’s Original Ideal Uncle Tom Combination unequivocally the finest Tom show on tour anywhere. Further, it is undeniable”—a self-effacing smile, and an index finger pointed upward for emphasis—“undeniable that my Legree has become the standard by which other interpretations of the role are judged.”
Shad Conway made a rude noise and muttered, “I never heard of J. J. Bascom before tonight.” Eleanor shushed him.
“However”—Bascom began to strut back and forth across the platform, pausing occasionally to point up this or that word with a broad gesture—“personal problems on the part of several members of the company necessitate my replacing them before Bascom’s Combination undertakes its grand two-year Western tour just a few short days from now. Hence my interest in this group—and my presence among you.”
A buzz of excitement traveled through the audience. They understood. She noticed that Leo had lost his angry expression and was looking interested. Even Eleanor felt a little thrill. Never mind Bascom’s age or his ridiculous wig. He had the power to hire someone in Hutter Hall for a professional engagement.
What was his company like? she wondered. There were dozens of undistinguished if hardworking Tom troupes constantly crisscrossing the nation and playing one-night engagements in towns and smaller cities. The skimpiest company she’d ever heard about supposedly performed the play’s twenty-nine male and female roles with a troupe of three, and no scenery. Despite Bascom’s wrinkles and his hyperbole, his troupe surely had to be better than that. She sat forward on the edge of her chair, fascinated.
“—have positions on the extended tour for three new gentlemen and one new lady.”
Bascom’s eyes darted to Eleanor as he said that. He’d shifted to the left on the platform. The shoulders of the boys in the row ahead no longer protected her. She turned red as the actor’s distinctly unpaternal gaze traveled up from her breasts to her throat and lingered on her lips. Leo looked as though he might lunge at the older man.
“Those selected shall receive handsome wages,” Bascom boomed. Eleanor doubted it. “As well as full traveling expenses. More important, they shall have the privilege of joining a company that already includes eleven fine actors and actresses, including myself”—fifteen people counting the replacements; respectable—“and the distinguished American tragedian, Mr. Daniel Prince, who is our Uncle Tom.”
When Shad nudged her shoulder, she was in better control, and didn’t start. The boy whispered, “Aha! That fellow, I’ve heard of.”
Charlie Whittaker turned and glowered. Shad ignored him.
“Prince drinks so much, no playhouse in town will hire him any longer. I’ll bet he took this part out of desperation.”
“Now,” Bascom said, beginning to bounce on the toes of his cracked boots, “if there are any here who might be inclined to read for possible inclusion in the company—”
His gaze returned to Eleanor. Quickly she glanced into her lap so he wouldn’t think she was a candidate. But she wished she could be. Going with Bascom’s troupe, she’d be free of that cursed house forever.
“I have brought a prompter’s script of the play. Do I have any applicants?”
Shad Conway’s hand shot up. So did the hands of a number of others—including Leo’s, Eleanor was surprised to see.
“What, no female candidates?” Bascom again let his eye rove until it came to rest on her. She couldn’t help being flattered that he’d singled her out, but she doubted he was interested in her acting ability. She shook her head. His face fell. With less enthusiasm, he waved at one of the hand raisers in the front row.
“All right, sir, you first. We’ll be reading from the opening scene in act one. Dialogue between Eliza and her husband George.”
There were some groans. They elicited a sharp glance from Bascom. “Anyone unwilling to double in brass and appear in darkie roles need not bother to audition. I should point out that a player of Mr. Prince’s stature does not consider it beneath him to don blackface and portray Uncle Tom.”
“No, not when he can’t get a part anywhere else,” Shad laughed under his breath.
“And further, his talented wife delights audiences with her interpretation of Topsy. Now, young sir, you and one of your lady friends step up here.”
One by one, three young men read the scene, each choosing one of the girls for a partner. Then came Leo’s turn. His glance slid to Eleanor before he made his choice—the girl who’d just read. Eleanor knew the slight was deliberate, but she supposed she deserved it.
Leo’s audition drew a favorable comment from Bascom, and some applause. Eleanor joined in. Leo noticed; when he looked at her, his face had an almost lovelorn expression for a moment.
When Shad was called forward, he grabbed Eleanor’s hand. “Come along and read Eliza with me.”
Before she was half out of her seat, Bascom exclaimed, “Yes, bring that young woman up here! Seldom have I seen feminine physiognomy more suited to gladdening the eye of provincial playgoers.”
“I’m not a candidate, sir.”
“I am crestfallen. No, I am devastated. I very much wanted to hear you read.”
“I’ll be glad to read with Shad so long as you know ahead of time that I’m not trying out for the troupe.”
“Capital!” Bascom rushed down the steps; he couldn’t wait to get his hand on her arm and assist her to the platform. Leo followed the actor’s every move.
Bascom took hold of Eleanor’s upper left arm. The back of his hand bumped her breast when he pretended to slip.
“Oh, my fault. Forgive me, Miss—?”
“Kent. Eleanor Kent.”
“What a fetching creature you are,” he murmured, almost dropping the prompt script. Shad caught it. A vein started to jump in Leo’s neck.
“All right,” Bascom said, hardly giving Shad a glance. “As I told the others, never mind the dialect at this stage. I only want your feeling for the material.”
She and Shad got through just fourteen speeches before Bascom stopped them and snatched the script away. Eleanor was disappointed for Shad’s sake. The others had been permitted to finish the scene.
Then, to her astonishment, Bascom started turning the pages of the script. “I’d like you to read a very short passage we haven’t done before. Third act, fourth scene. Little Eva’s chamber. Eva is dying. That’s you, Miss Kent.”
He thrust the script at her. “You don’t have much dialogue. But it’s an unparalleled opportunity to emote. As for you, Mr.—ah, ah—”
“Conway.”
“Quite so. You read St. Clare’s dialogue. I suppose I needn’t tell you St. Clare is Eva’s father?”
“No, sir, you need not. I have seen the play four times.”
Shad was understandably miffed. Bascom had been looking at Eleanor while he addressed the boy.
Still with eyes fastened on her, the aging actor said, “I shall read Tom, and Marie’s one line. You two give me as much business as you can, consistent with handling the script. All right, here we go. And, Miss Kent—”
His scrutiny made her squirm. “Yes, sir?”
“Kindly don’t hold back a thing.”
She had an uneasy feeling he was trying to put more into the plea than a reference to acting. But she pretended to be unaware.
“Begin with St. Clare’s first speech, Mr.—ah—”
“Conway, Conway! Jaysus.”
“Yes, yes, to be sure. Go ahead.”
Shad cleared his throat, then practically bowled Eleanor over with his first line:
“Hush!
She is dying!”
Bascom spoke in a falsetto—as the white man’s cousin, Marie. “Dying!”
Someone giggled. A glare from the actor silenced whoever it was.
Shad peered at the stage directions, then quickly picked up his cue. “Oh! If she would only wake and speak once more—”
He bent his head till his face was uncomfortably close to Eleanor’s. From the corner of her eye she saw Leo watching. There was no question that he was jealous. Good.
Then Shad slid his arm around her waist. She stiffened. The reaction made him noticeably delay his next line. “Eva darling!”
She fought to control her unreasonable fear. He was holding her only because the script made it justifiable. She concentrated on the reading; she had no dialogue, but she did have a stage direction. She opened her eyes, then slowly let a smile form.
She raised her chin and opened her mouth as if about to speak. She thought she was prolonging the whole piece of business horribly. Shad’s eyes were impatient. But Bascom seemed transported. He breathed a word not in the script.
“Beautiful.”
“Do you know me, Eva?” Shad exclaimed, sounding as if he didn’t much care. She was reluctant to follow her next direction. Was Leo watching and noticing her hesitation? It took all of the nerve she had for her to throw her arms around Shad’s neck.
“Lord God, what a face,” Bascom murmured, just before Eleanor delivered her line in an intense stage whisper, “Dear—
Papa!”
Flinging her arms wide, then letting them drop, she collapsed in Shad’s arms.
He practically foamed with emotion as he spoke his line.
“Oh, heaven! This is dreadful! Oh! Tom my boy, it is killing me!”
In character as the old black, Bascom pointed at Eleanor. “Look at her, mas’r.”
“Eva!”
Shad paused for effect “She does not hear. Oh, Eva. Tell us what you see. What is it?”
Eleanor opened her eyes and smiled.
“Oh! Love! Joy!
Peace!”
She collapsed again, even limper than before. It was the best she could do to follow her final stage direction—
Dies.
She heard clapping. Bascom said in dialect, “Oh! Bless the Lord! It’s over.” Then he abandoned the accent. “That’s fine.”
Shad purpled. “But I have one more long speech.”‘
“Not important. I have an idea of what you can do.” He seized Eleanor’s hand. “Miss Kent, you were highly impressive. Highly! Are you certain you can’t consider yourself a candidate?”
She was surprised at how reluctant she felt when she replied, “No, sir, I have responsibilities at home.”
“Oh.” He glanced at her left hand. “Already married, are you?”
“Heavens no,” she began, but Shad interrupted.
“She’s hardly of marriageable age, Bascom. She just turned fifteen.”
She knew Shad said that because he was hurt by the older man’s indifference to his reading, and because he wanted to undermine her success if he could. Actors were warm, generous people, but she’d found they could also be supremely vindictive when professional success was at stake.
Bascom, however, wasn’t the least put off.
“Fifteen? I’d swear she’s three to five years older. So would every man, woman and child in our audience, I’ll wager.”
“Well, be that as it may”—gracefully Eleanor sidestepped his attempt to draw her into the curve of his arm—“I’m not free to leave New York just now.”
Bascom shook his head. “Too bad. You read well and move nicely and I’d love to get you under—ah—” He coughed. “That is, with proper tutelage and in a company as distinguished as ours, your talent would surely flower. Well”—he fished in a food-spotted waistcoat, produced a soiled card—“as I said, we won’t be leaving for some days yet. My office is my suite at the Paramount Hotel in lower Broadway. That’s jotted on the reverse of the card. If you should change your mind, please come see me.”
He gave her a last, imploring glance that seemed a trifle sad. Eleanor had quite lost her fear of him. He was just a harmless old man in seedy clothes and a wig that didn’t fit very well. Yet, he had a certain avuncular quality that she liked.
“Thank you, Mr. Bascom,” she said, meaning it.
There were two more auditions. When they were over, Bascom again addressed the group.
“I have been very impressed by what I have seen here this evening. Now I shall have to mull over my conclusions. Should I wish to call any of you back for a second reading, I shall be in touch on a personal basis, providing you have correctly listed your address on the sheet which Mr.—ah—”
“Whittaker,” Charlie said.
“—which Mr. Whittaker provided. Thank you again, one and all.”
Once more the members and their guests rose to give him a round of applause. Eleanor suddenly saw that Leo was missing. She discovered him by the door leading to the stairs. He was clapping for Bascom but watching her. She couldn’t decipher the look in his dark eyes just before he turned and disappeared.
Was he still hurt about the way she’d rejected his invitation? Or was he disappointed by the inconclusive audition? She had a strange feeling she wouldn’t be seeing him any more, and that made her sad.
As the clapping faded, she realized she’d dropped Bascom’s card. She searched the floor until she found it.
About four the next afternoon, Charlie Whittaker rang the mansion bell and asked for her. She met him in the library. He was out of breath.
“Eleanor, he
hired
him. Bascom hired that little Jew!”
“He hired
Leo?”
Pouting, Charlie nodded.
She didn’t know what to think—or how she should feel. Pleased? Sorrowful? There was no doubt about Charlie’s feelings.
“To think a sheeny would win out over Christian actors—”
“Charlie, you mustn’t keep making derogatory remarks about Leo’s religion. You’re only doing it because you’re mad. We both know he’s the best actor in the club. I can just see women fainting away when he emotes with that beautiful voice of his.”
“How’d he get a voice like that? I suppose he thinks it’s some sign God has
blessed
him!”
“Do sit down and get over your jealousy. The things you’re saying are very unkind. It isn’t at all like you.”
He sank into a chair. “Guess it isn’t. Don’t know why I should be jealous, really. Pater and Mater wouldn’t let me go on a long tour. Not yet. That’s why I didn’t even audition.”
“How’d you find out about Leo?”
“Bascom came to the house.” Charlie studied the carpet a while, then finally mumbled, “Leo’s name and address were omitted from the list I gave him.”
“Leo’s too bright to accidentally leave—oh, Charlie. You didn’t erase them?”