Harold had been working in the studio three days in the second week of November. It would be more accurate to say that he had reported for work, had made up and dressed for his part, but he had been kept waiting in his dressing-room, a tiny chamber, separated from the adjoining cubicles by thin walls of rough pine boards, which rose ten feet in the air and then suddenly terminated while yet some appreciable distance from the ceiling. A pine shelf served as a dressing-table, over which hung a mirror, framed in zinc, outlined with a blaze of electric lights. This was one in a long row of similar rooms on the second floor of a mammoth building which looked as if it had been put up over night and which probably could be destroyed by a brisk fire in considerably less time even than that.
A red and white sign vocatively adjured against smoking, and a poster of Zimbule in her costume as the Long Island Phryne, a veil of orange tulle and a rope of pearls, hung on the wall of this room, as it hung, Harold soon discovered, on all the other walls of this vast factory, for factory was what it seemed to him, but he had not yet caught a glimpse of Zimbule herself. Her dressing-room was located on the opposite side of the building and was approached by a separate staircase. He had taken it for granted that she would be working in the studio below and that was primarily the reason why he had refrained from wandering about downstairs, although he had been encouraged to do so by various actors, camera-men, and stage-hands, who had lounged into his room out of curiosity, ostensibly to light their cigarettes, or to ask the time. He had not taken advantage of their invitation to roam; instead, he sat alone in his room, waiting . . . for what? he wondered.
Campaspe had oiled the wheels. He had found it incredibly simple to become a cabot of the silver sheets, an epithet for his new profession dropped by one of his visitors, an assistant director named Rex MacGregor, a lad about seventeen years old, whose thin white face was profusely sprinkled with pimples, and who wore ridiculously tight shepherd's plaid trousers over his extremely thin legs, a waistcoat which exposed about as much of his shirt as the similar garment of a Spanish matador, and a coat in which the pockets were cut at angles which would have thrown a cubist painter into a delirium. Harold had called one morning, following instructions, on the casting director, and when he encountered that superb individual, with his shirt-sleeves rolled back to the shoulder, exposing the lumps of muscle which distorted the contour of his hairy arms, a huge black cigar between his teeth, sitting before a desk littered with papers and stills, he had not felt encouraged. This ruffian apparently had forgotten that Harold had been announced, and after leaving him standing for half an hour or so while he conversed, in a language of which Harold could only understand one word in ten, with a blonde lady, massive and buxom in the style of 1896, the figure tightly corseted and swelling with curves like a Bartlett pear, he turned suddenly and savagely on the boy and asked him his business. Who are you and what d'ye want? he growled. But when Harold had repeated his name, the man's manner considerably altered. His face became wreathed in equivocal, nay blandiloquent, smiles and, without a single further question, he pushed a long sheet of printed paper over towards Harold, and asked him to sign it. The man never laughed, Harold observed, and even his smile he controlled in a curious and disgusting way with his tongue. There was something about this smile, indeed, that Harold did not quite like. Nevertheless, before he signed the document, which he took to be a contract, his natural honesty compelled him to explain that this was his first job in pictures, that he was wholly inexperienced, that he hoped, etc. But the casting director, alternately biting his cigar brutally and removing it to give vent to one of his enigmatical and unsatisfactory smiles, waved away this attempt at reason with a That's all right. I know. I know, pronouncing these I knows with a downward inflection which gave them, perhaps, a richer meaning. Sign here. He indicated a dotted line and Harold signed.
A little later, when alone, it occurred to him to read the document and he discovered, to his amazement, that his salary was to be $400 a week and that he was engaged to play leads. He was employed, apparently, by the Zimbule O'Grady Film Company, Incorporated, to appear in a picture entitled The Passionate Flapper. He endeavoured to satisfy his conscience by assuring himself that he owed this turn in his fortunes to Campaspe, but his uneasy conscience retorted that Campaspe had arranged his easy ingress only through the influence of Zimbule. How could he, he asked himself, accept the position under these humiliating circumstances? The fact remained, however, that he had signed the contract, and a certain clause provided definitely that in case the contract should be broken by either party, a large sum of money was to be forfeited. It was too late, then, to listen to his conscience. Besides he was not sure. Perhaps Campaspe had friends among the directors of the company. It was possible, indeed, that she, herself, in spite of her denial, had put money into the project. It was like her to wish to heip Zimbule and, if she had bought stock with this intention, it would be unlike her to seek any recognition for her good deed. As the days passed, he grew more uncertain still. Zimbule had made no effort to approach him. If my contract had been arranged through her she would have come to gloat, he argued, or she would send for me. Asa final mode of relieving his tortured mind, he determined to make good. If I do satisfactory work in this picture, he reasoned, if I do what I have to do well, it doesn't matter who got me the job. In any case, then, I will be earning my salary. With casuistry of this nature he held daily communication with himself.
Passionately, he wanted to make good for his own sake, for Campaspe's sake, even for Alice's sake. He would show Alice that he could get along on his own. He had to confess to himself, however, that as yet he was not on his own, that in taking this position he had been obliged to make as great a sacrifice of his principles as if he had accepted his father's shameful offer. Principles! He was beginning to wonder if he had any left! And then alleviation came again in the thought that what he was now doing he was doing independently, of his own free will. He had not been tricked and driven into this corner. He had listened to Campaspe's arguments and, with his eyes open, he had walked voluntarily into it. If he succeeded, Alice might never know, perhaps, how the chance had come to him. She might even credit him with initiative in the matter.
As for Campaspe, she was more in his thoughts than any one else. Without professing to understand her or her motives, he thought of her as a consistently kind and sympathetic person. She was more than she appeared to be in the somewhat ribald crowd with which she so strangely associated, of that he was sure. His sympathy for her, as the weeks had gone by, had deepened into a kind of affection, in which, even he, with his naïve reasoning powers, recognized a filial element. In some respects, he realized, he regarded her somewhat as he might have regarded his mother, but this, for him, who had never known his mother, was a dangerous affection, the most dangerous of all. Again, the inexplicable tangle confused his thinking: how, inconceivably, he had married Alice with the idea of Campaspe paramount. And there was much more that he did not understand at all.
He wondered if Zimbule would shou'resentment, turn spiteful. Towards her, from her point of view, he had, indubitably, behaved in the shabbiest possible manner. She had gravitated towards him naturally. She did everything naturally. Campaspe was right: Zimbule was a little animal. Why had he rejected her attentions so forcibly, so rudely? He could not tell. He knew only that he was subject to extravagant reactions, insane impulses. Everybody around him seemed to take life as a matter of course. He, alone, seemed to regard it with suspicion, a suspicion, he was horrified to discover, which seemed to aggrandize with every new opportunity. He was afraid of life; that was it, afraid of life! Nothing seemed to be easy for him. Another, perhaps, even more thin-skinned than himself, but less obstinate, less timid, would have put up with his father's stupid joke, have fallen in with his father's wishes. Paul would have done so, he reflected. To Paul, with his sense of irony, one course would have seemed as bad or as good as another. There was, apparently, a great gulf fixed between any two generations, the way people have lived and the way they live now. Youth must bridge this gulf. Others did; why couldn't he? Why to all intents and purposes did he still belong to his Aunt Sadi's generation rather than to Paul's? Paul seemed to have nothing in his nature which resisted, which revolted, while he seemed to have nothing else but resistance and revolt in his nature. He could accept nothing unaccustomed without an internal struggle. What was it: pride or stupidity which held him in its vice, so that he felt unable to turn in any direction without a sense that he was shaming some older and more honourable intention? He did not know. All he knew was that he was that way, and he had begun to realize that, at bottom, no one changes. As one is born one is . . . always. The only growth possible lay on the side of increasing comprehension of oneself. He did not understand himself, or Alice, or Campaspe, but Campaspe he accepted, as he accepted his aunt and Persia Blaine. These three, alone, in the world with which he had yet come into contact, did not arouse him to resistance. These three and one other. Paul, he could understand after a fashion, and Zimbule, a sheet of flame burning a path before her desire, he understood only too well. In the past he had avoided this flame, only, it would appear, to walk voluntarily into it in the present. And the question he asked himself, so much had his experience alalready taught him, was whether it was worth while to struggle against this flame any longer, whether it would not be better to . . . But did Zimbule still cherish her old desire? That doubt assailed him fifty times a day and it had lodged in his mind afresh when he heard a voice down the corridor calling, Mr. Proowit! Mr. Proowit! He started guiltily as he bade the boy come in, and he was in a perspiration of dread and fear when Rex entered to tell him that he was wanted at once in the studio below.
He quickly rubbed a little more flesh paint into his cheeks—the first day, following the advice of some ancient thespian, he had used yellow powder, but a lad in the next room who visited Harold to borrow towels, rabbits' feet, matches, soap, and eyebrow pencils, had informed him categorically that the employment of yellow powder was obsolete. This ain't a Pearl White serial, he explained. Them days is over. . . . Harold drew on his dinner coat, examining himself once more in the mirrer, catching therein a glimpse of the impertinent and grinning Rex gazing over his shoulder, and then started out.
As he entered the enormous studio, crowded with actors, stage-hands, carpenters building sets in various corners, producing a deafening racket with their hammers, he felt as though everybody were staring at him. As a consequence he could scarcely walk steadily. Rex guided him to the proper set and once he was there he found that no one was aware of his presence at all. The director, the camera-man, and the art director were in the midst of a heated argument. It can't be done, the camera-man was yelling. I ain't never done it before and anything I ain't never done nobody can do. I tell you it can, declared the art director, with the finality of a person who knew. Well, it won't be. See! put in the director, setting his square jaw high. Not if I have my way. And I'm going to have it. It's my job to arrange the sets. What do you think I'm getting paid more'n anybody else around here for? To argue with a bunch of fish? By God, I'll see you all in hell if you don't do what I want!
At this seemingly crucial moment—to Harold the men seemed on the verge of murder—, round a corner of the scenery, set to represent a moving picture art director's idea of a somewhat flashy Parisian apartment, Harold saw Zimbule approaching, leading a leopard by a silver chain. She was wearing a costume fashioned entirely of strands of rhinestones. On her head waved a forest of yellow feathers, secured in a crown of brilliants. Her bare arms were encased nearly to the elbow in a succession of circles of diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies. On her bare right ankle—her feet were casketed in sandals—, she wore three more of these circles. There was a heavy impression of muguet in the air.
Are you all cuckoo? the girl demanded of the belligerent group. This ain't a bull-fight or a baseball game! What d'ye think y'are, she inquired shrilly of the art director, Babe Ruth?
Zimbule passed the silver chain, with the leopard attached, to her Negro maid, who followed her. The men were apologetic.
I was jest tellin' 'em it couldn't be done, explained the camera-man.
That's right, Zimbule sneered. You tell 'em, Sweeney, you're the biggest. Suddenly she saw Harold. Hello, she said, in a friendly enough tone. So you're here.
As she walked towards him he advanced to meet her, thinking at the same time that never before had she appeared so beautiful. He hesitated for a second as to whether or not he should offer his hand and she, observing his confusion, held out her own. Curiously, she too seemed a little ill at ease.
I hope, he stammered, that you'll find me all right. You know—he patted his face with his handkerchief; even in November the studio was a hot-house and he was perspiring freely—, you know how little experience I've had.
She regarded him quizzically, but when she spoke her tone was careless. I hope so, she echoed, her mind apparently elsewhere. Then, more seriously, Of course you will. Even the wops can do it. Never look at the camera. Look at me. I'll make you act.
Scene, Miss O'Grady, please, cried the director.
Zimbule took Harold's arm and propelled him into the flashy Parisian apartment. Now the lights, full on his face, were blinding, suffocating. The strands of gems which hung from Zimbule's shoulders and waist flashed blue and white messages to his eyes. He seemed to have lost his vision. His head began to ache and, in the intensity of the heat, he could scarcely breathe. Behind the camera he vaguely caught a glimpse of a knot of bystanders, men and women in evening dress, waiting, probably, to appear in some ball or fête scene. Zimbule did not seem to be conscious of their presence.
I haven't the least idea what I am to do, Harold whispered in desperation. I haven't seen the scenario.
I haven't either, she laughed. It doesn't make any difference. That's what that stiff is paid for. He'll tell us what to do.
Now we'll take the temptation scene, the director shouted, in a tone suggesting that he was advising a crowd of ten thousand people in Madison Square Garden to vote for Debs. Hey! Cut that! This to the carpenters who had now begun to pound at double the rate they had hitherto employed. Rex dashed off to the further end of the room to repeat the injunction. Soon there was comparative silence, only about as much noise as in the Stock Exchange on a fairly busy day. The director continued: Harold—Harold was a trifle startled by this familiar approach from a man he had never seen before—, you are alone with Dolly, the passionate flapper. She is determined to seduce you, and you are almost ready to yield when you see that picture of the madonna on the wall. The picture reminds you of your good wife, calls you back to your senses, and you cast the vamp off. Now, try it.
Harold sat down, as directed, and Zimbule approached him.
Register the beginning of passion! You are fascinated by the sigh-reen, screamed the director, through a megaphone.
Harold had the air of a man who has just been told that he will die within the month. On the arm of his chair, Zimbule smoothed his hair with her right hand. He felt her warm breath on his cheek. His heart was beating violently in an irregular rhythm that Stravinsky would have given his right ear to have invented.
Nothing like it! NO-THING LIKE IT! drawled the director in a hoarse wail of dissatisfaction. Passion! PASSION!!! You aren't saved yet. You haven't seen the picture YET! Snuggle! SNUGGLE!
Harold tried desperately hard to snuggle. He put one arm tentatively and awkwardly around Zimbule's waist. With valiant cozenage she fell limply into his lap. Now the gods had not given Harold any talent for acting, but he was not entirely bereft of natural feeling. Quite unexpectedly he began to sense the spirit of the scene.
More like it! shouted the director. Now, look at the madonna and think of your poor little wife at home. Harold obeyed. The blood rushed to his face.
Push her away!
Harold pushed. Zimbule fell before him, pleading on her knees. She wept, she wrung her hands, she clasped his legs,
Keep your eyes on the madonna! Sp—URN the gurrrrulll!
Harold kept his eyes on the madonna. His nails were digging into his palms as he held his arms tight against his sides. His brain began to reel. Quite suddenly he had realized that he desired wildly to take Zimbule in his arms, to caress her, to kiss her violently, to crush her, to beat her. So love was like this. All that was needed to set one afire was propinquity and opportunity. Alice one week; Zimbule the next. He began to have a glimmering of understanding and he recalled Campaspe's story: It is not good to say fountain—out of your basin I shall never drink . . . eh, no señor.
The scene was over.
Great stuff! said Zimbule, picking herself up. I knew you'd do.
Go over it again! the director ordered.
This time, when Zimbule touched his head with her hand, he half rose, and drew her towards him. Pulling her down into the chair, he covered her face and throat with kisses. Their lips met.
That's eeeeNOUGH! Look at the madonna. Think of your WIFE!
You love me! Zimbule whispered.
As he looked at the picture and pushed her away, Harold nodded. This time, Zimbule fell with her back to the camera and in her eyes, as she gazed at the man who was trying hard to register rejection, there was an expression of triumph.
We can't see your face, Miss O'Grady!
As she turned, she burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing. Then she fell back on the floor, laughing and crying, her lithe, young body shaken with convulsions.
Great! commented the director. Great! We'll take it.
Zimbule, still crying, staggered to her feet. Her maid, having passed the young leopard on to Rex, approached with a mirror and a powder-puff, but Zimbule, unable to control her emotion, rushed off to her room.
The kid's gone too far, commented the camera-man. She's wore herself out.
You're the goods, boy, the director said to Harold. Valentino himself couldn't do better.
Harold was dazed. He scarcely knew what had happened and apparently it had to happen again. He tried to get his bearings. After a long wait, during which nobody exhibited any surprise or impatience, Zimbule reappeared.
Scene 62, cried the director. Title: Reginald remembers his wife. All ready! Camera! The camera-man began to turn the crank and the scene progressed, its course accented by the shouts of the director: Register passion! Look at the ma-donna! Spurn her! SP-URN her! Kick her! This time the scene went even better than before. It was carried through with abandon on both sides, but in the emotional scene, Zimbule was a little more artful. Her tears and her hysteria were no longer natural but they were magnificently feigned. She wept and grovelled. She wrung her hands and clasped Harold's knees. And, finally, she flung herself prostrate on the floor, apparently in a faint.
Take it again!
For the fourth time Harold clasped Zimbule in his arms and kissed her. . . . Good. That's all for you two today, said the director. We'll take the ball-room scene.
Come with me, Zimbule whispered to Harold. She hastened on ahead, followed at a few paces by her maid and Rex, leading the leopard. Harold brought up the rear. Once in her dressing-room, having seen the leopard fastened and Rex dismissed, Zimbule kicked the door shut with her foot. Then, pressing Harold's head between her hands, she guided his lips to hers. The maid, grinning like a black demon, hovered over them.
Harold!
Zimbule!
Why did you go away . . . that night?
I don't know . . . I was afraid. . . .
You love me?
I adore you!
Zimbule caught sight of the black Mephistophela in her mirror.
Here, you Desdemona, she cried. Take these, sign 'em, and mail 'em. She shoved a pile of photographs into the Negress's arms, and pushed her into an adjoining room.