Mimic Life, or Before and Behind the Curtain, a series of narratives by Anna Korra-Mawet Ritchie. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. To record the singular incidents that occurred around me, and sketch the striking histories which wakened my interest, was a favorite employment during a professional career of nine years. Out of the many-colored webs of life, thus collective, the narratives that compose this volume are woven. Fiction has lent but few embellishing touches. Truth is left to reclaim her own strangeness. Should this work achieve the object contemplated, its readers will receive a more correct impression of some unlawful laborers for the public amusement than is generally entertained. Between them and the everyday world, the curtain of prejudice has fallen in impenetrable folds. From its fatal shadow those alone who climb to the highest pinnacles of fame emerge. Yet among the most lowly of the prescribed band, there are many whose lies bear witness that heaven plants its flowers and scanners its pearls in unexpected places. Look for them, you who judge harshly, before you pronounce that they have no existence there. Anna Cora Ritchie Ravenswood, October 27, 1855 End of Preface Chapter 1 of Mimic Life, or Before and Behind the Curtain, by Anna Cora Moet Ritchie This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Chapter 1 Stella We know what we are, but we know not what we may be. Ophelia. Must you hang that red flag from the drawing-room window? Couldn't you choose any other? Maddie ventured to touch the elbow of the man whom she thus curiously addressed. He was in the act of securing the pole that suspended a scarlet flag in the front of the stately mansion in one of the most fashionable localities in Boston. It's a sheriff's sale, was the brusque reply. All the world knows that without your red dragon token, sighed Maddie. She looked disconsultably about the spacious apartment in which the costly appliances of wealth were ranged, not in their customary order, but in that best fitted for their display for an auction. Thirty years before the period alluded to, Mr. Rosenvelt, an American merchant, visited London with his youthful wife. Maddie chanced to be employed by the lady as an assistant dressmaker. The English girl became a widow one year after her marriage, and a few months before the book of her teens were closed. She had never contemplated entering service, but soon conceived a warm attachment for Mrs. Rosenvelt, and was induced to accept the situation of ladies' maid. A year afterwards the devoted attendant accompanied her master and mistress to America. Very great was her astonishment when she was thrown in contact with the Boston Helps, who are so horrified at the word servant that they would gladly have the expression thy man servant and thy maid servant erased from the decalogue. Maddie was puzzled to comprehend how honest servitude could be considered a degradation. Must not some rule in some serve, she would say? It is my lot to serve, and I take pride in serving faithfully. If I begin to think of myself too good to serve my mistress, I shall soon think myself too good to serve my god. The policy of leaving a tried situation for one more profitable, an idea of peculiarly American growth, never found its way into her simple, uncalculating mind. She deemed herself grafted upon the family which she first entered. Their interests were hers, their sorrows hers, their welfare hers. She was their hopeful friend as well as their domestic. The much-enduring Maddie never talked of too much trouble or too much fatigue. She always understood more than any one mortal could possibly accomplish, and, though her inclination constantly outstripped her strength, she was never wholly baffled. Her hands were ever tendered to lift other people's burdens, her sympathies ever ready to fly east or west whichever way besought them. Her existence was completely merged in that of others. A crowd of curious idlers, or intended purchasers, now made their way into the apartment. Maddie noticed the rude manner with which they examined the objects of virtue which had been so highly valued by their owners, the gifts for chance of dear friends, the prized mementos of happy hours. She brushed away a troublesome tear and hurried up the stairs. Looking first into this room, then into that, evidently in search of someone. At last she opened the door of a large but totally dismantled chamber. It was once the favorite apartment of the master of the house, the room from which his corpse had been borne out. There a young girl was rapidly walking up and down, her eyes fixed upon the ground, her small hands clasped tightly over her head, lost in deep thought. To paint an odor or an atmosphere, the melting hues of a rainbow, the soft effligence of moonlight lamp would be more promising attempt than to portray by language the intangible attribute which compelled those who gazed upon her to pronounce Stella beautiful. The charm dwelt not in any one feature, for none was faultless. The perfect harmony that blended the whole countenance, the rapid transitions of expression, the flashing soul shining through its transparent covering as though a crystal encasement, these constituted the elements of her loveliness. Her eyes were neither large nor small. At one time they appeared to be brilliantly black, at another they seemed illustrious blue. They were in reality of grayish hue, mingled with a light hazel, which possessed the peculiarity of changing its color with varying emotions. Her abundant hair exhibited that rare tint which the French called Châtagne d'or, chestnut, streaked with gold. It partook of the chameleon property of her eyes. When the air was clear and radiant, which sunshine, her tresses were almost golden. In a human atmosphere the shining gold was extinguished and replaced by a soft brown. Her flexible lips disclosed immaculate teeth, and in repose the mouth seemed to curve itself spontaneously into a smile. Her figure was slightly above the medium height, with slender, spanable waist, underveloped proportions, and not very erect veering, which characterized the American maiden at eighteen, the precise opposite of the swelling form rounded arms, dimple shoulders, and firm carriage that distinguish an English girl at the same age. There's a crowd pouring in below, Miss Stella, dear. Hadn't we better come away home? asked Maddie, tinglyly. Home? Oh, Maddie. Well, I didn't mean to fix you. I know well enough you can never call any home but this, and can't get accustomed to think of the shabbiish rooms at the boarding-places home.  Yes, I'll go, Maddie, and mother may want us, but first let me tell you of what I'm thinking. Only don't start and remonstrate, and be horrified with me. I couldn't bear that just now. I have just been told by our lawyer that the cell of this house and our furniture, all we have, will not more than meet my father's liabilities. My dear mother and I are left without provision solely dependent on my brother. You know how noble Ernest is, how willingly he would share his last fathering with us, but his salary at the theatre is as yet small, not sufficient to furnish him with the expensive wardrobe that is requisite in his profession. True enough, dear, he wrote he would manage to spare sufficient to take care of his mother and of you, and we are not all sure that he will do it gladly. So he would, but he cannot possibly secure my mother with the comforts, the luxuries to which she has been accustomed, which her feeble help demands, and we shall be as a huge millstone around the neck of Ernest. We shall be preventing his climbing the ladder of fame. We shall keep him always on the lowest round.  It shall not be. I am as fitted to work as he. Why should I not exert myself? Why should I dully sluggerdize at home, wear out my youth with shapeless idleness? You, child, you, what could you do? Not teach, perhaps. I have thought of that. The compensation is too pitiful. Not give music lessons, though that would be more profitable. Not become an artist, I have not talent for that. Those walks are all close to me. There is but one open. The stage. Oh, Miss Stella, I shall think you demented. So people said of my brother, when my father took him into his counting-house, and Ernest grew weary and listless, and one day declared that he had no turn for commerce, that he preferred a profession, that there was one profession alone for which he had decided abilities, that of an actor. My father was angry enough at first, and my mother wept and talked of disgrace. But Ernest was so fixed in his resolution, he proved himself upright, so persevering, that he won them over. Don't you remember Maddie, when he engaged as second walking gentleman in a country theater at a miserable salary? How we all were demonstrated? But he studied incessantly, he rose rapidly, and soon he received an offer to appear here at Tramont. My father saw him perform, pronounced that he had genius for his vocation, and after that was content. It was just one year before my dear father died, and now Ernest is engaged as leading man in one of the largest theaters in New York. To be sure he shares the business with an older actor, which is unfortunate, but who doubts that he will one day become one of the most renowned tragedians of the day. Not I. Lord love him. I have always said he was cut out of the pattern of a great man, and it's coming true. Why didn't you make a prophecy about me at the same time, Maddie? And there are laurels springing somewhere about this earth which I hope to wear. I am tired of this aimless existence. You remember Mr. Oakland, with whom my brother read, and who was also my teacher of elocution? I once heard him say that my powers of personation were not inferior to those of Ernest. Hundreds of times that remark has come back to me, for Mr. Oakland is no idle flatterer. My brother must procure me an engagement in the theater where he acts. We shall perform together. He will instruct me and protect me. I will use my talents as well as he. It's not for me to presume upon advising, and I know nothing of theaters except what I have heard from Mr. Ernest, but this I know. I am always happiest with my hands full, and so perhaps will you be. But how will you get your mother's consent? She has never seemed to care for anything since my father's death. She will hardly rouse herself to refuse. I think I can persuade her. Let's go home, she was about to say, but she checked herself. Back to the boarding-house. Stella found her mother sitting in the attitude of listless despair, which had become habitual to her since the death of her husband. She was clad in the deepest morning. Her hair smoothed from her brow, and covered with a close widow's cap, which, to her morbid mind, seemed one of grief's needful expressions. Her waned face, grown permanently old, rested on her thin hand. Her whole mean betokened the most perfect apathy. She could not occupy herself, she could not converse, or even think. She wholly surrendered her spirit to the domain of a sorrow that paralyzed her faculties. She refilled every chamber of her heart, and left no room for comfort to enter in. Yet she was what is styled a church-going woman, and scrupulously strict in all pious observances, no hypocrite, though a misconstruer of the great ends of religion. It never occurred to her that there is impiety in yielding to hopeless despondency, that there is sin in everything that obstructs, or even partially curtails, our usefulness, that the eyes of living faith are never riveted downwards to the grave, but upraised to the heaven beyond. Mr. Rosenvelt died suddenly. His affairs were left to the settlement of lawyers. In a few months it was announced to the helpless widow that she was penniless, that she must leave her luxurious home, forgo her customary habits, and look to her son for future support. The second shock had been so much transcended by the first, that this new blow was scarcely felt. She removed to a comfortless boarding-house without betraying any unusual emotion. She wept much but silently. She seemed to think that taking up a place in the world was all that now remained for her in life, and day by day her mental torpor increased. Mrs. Rosenvelt scarcely looked up as her daughter entered the room. Stella knelt down by her mother's side, and caressingly took the hand that lay in her lap. Mother, I want to talk to you. If you have any strength to hear me. May I? Yes, was the languid uttered reply. But I shall perhaps startle you by a project that I have in heart.  There was no answer, but a heart sore sigh, which seemed to say that nothing in life could startle or grieve her more. May I go on, mother, dear? Yes. Then Stella courageously repeated the hopes and schemes that she had invited to Maddie, affirming with her subject as though she thought to inspire her mother with her own order. Her cheeks glowed, and her eyes flashed as she paused, panting for a reply. Mrs. Rosenvelt shook her head. It is one of your wild dreams, child. It will never be. You cannot accomplish it. Mother, I can, and will, with Heaven's help and your permission. Have I that? It cost Mrs. Rosenvelt a great effort to rouse herself sufficiently to utter a few commonplace objections such as her daughter easily combated. The will of the former, opposed to that of the latter, vowed as a reed before a strong blast, was borne onward as a straw on a rushing tide. But the facile mother could not be lured into an argument. At least, may I write to my brother, and see what he will say and do? Yes. Thank you, mother. Now all will be well. I am sure of it. If only I could see you smile, Stella, Stella. And Mrs. Rosenvelt burst into an agony of tears. The possibility of smiling seemed to her almost sacrilege. Mrs. Caresses only creased the violence of her mother's grief, and the young girl silently waited for the proxism to subside. She could not weep herself. She had too much to plan, too much to accomplish. Strenuous action and the luxury of tears are incompatible. When at last the sobs died away, Stella arose and disappeared into the closet-like apartment which served as her chamber. The letter to her brother was written at once, and Maddie dispatched with it to the post. This much affected Stella grew restless to achieve something more. She took it for granted that her brother's answer must be favorable. Her next step was to visit her former tutor and ever-dear friend, Mr. Oakland. A few minutes' walk brought her to the garden gate of his bower-like cottage. Out as within, this unpretending abode, a presence of tasteful simplicity and evident love and cultivation of the beautiful, proclaimed the refined tone of its inmates. Mr. Oakland was, by birth, an Englishman of sterling family. In his first manhood, prosperity, with lavish hands, scattered her good gifts about his path. He might have aptly styled himself the very button of fortune's cap. Scarcely had she launched him on a brilliant-seeming commercial career, then her smiles were capriciously withdrawn. Then came the struggle so bitter to a proud and sensitive nature. We pass over his youthful contest with life. At the period of which we write, his day of wrestling with adversity had nearly closed. For some years he had been recognized as an imminent master of elocution, and his talents found ample exercise in colleges, institutes, literary coteries, and the public lecture room. The world made him tardy compensation for early buffets. In intellect, as in appearance, he preserved the freshness and vigor which belonged to manhood's prime. There was a singular mingling of reserve and frankness in his manners, too courteous to be positively blunt. He notwithstanding often spoke truths to his best friends that lacked gentleness. Beneath the dignified reticence, which was sometimes mistaken for coldness or pride, there flowed a current of warm geniality. The thin icy barrier was but a mere coating on the external surface, which quickly melted before the sunshine of appreciation. To Mr. Oakland's instruction and advice, Ernest Rosenvelt had been greatly indebted for his first success upon the stage, out of this fact spraying Stella's determination to apply to her former tutor. Mr. Oakland, while he enjoyed to the highest degree the displays of dramatic genius, while the performances of Sidon's and O'Neill, Kimball and Cook were engraven, as on tablets of steel, and treasured in his memory, yet entertained a deep-rooted repugnance for the theatrical profession itself. Stella was aware of this antipathy, and felt sure that he would attempt to dissuade her from her purpose, but the wayward girl was too strongly armed in her self-will to believe that she could be conquered. When she had reached his residence Mr. Oakland was engaged. He might not be at leisure for some while. Stella inquired for Mrs. Oakland and was soon admitted to her presence, subdued in manners, mild and ladylike in person, Mrs. Oakland exemplified the beauty of the most lovable and womanly trait, the power of appreciating others, of drawing forth their finest qualities, without the desire to shine herself. She never originated, but always reflected back brilliancy. Her quick appreciation and ready sympathy were even more conducive to delightful social intercourse than the display of sparkling intellectual gifts. She possessed the gracious faculty of rendering her guests pleased with themselves. Consequently they were always charmed with her. Stella made a failing attempt to talk on indifferent subjects, then broke off abruptly and dashed at once into full relation of her scheme. She had risen from her seat and was discoursing so enthusiastically on her future career that she did not hear the door open. The expression of her auditor's countenance caused her to turn. Mr. Oakland stood behind her, intently listening. "'Then you know what I am talking about? You have heard my project?' was her eager greeting. "'Yes. And what am I to think of you?' "'Think. Think that I am, in the words of Portia, an unlessened girl, unschooled, unpracticed, happy in this. She is not yet so old, but that she may learn, happier than this. She is not bred so dull, but that she can learn. Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit commits itself to you to be instructed. Why do you smile?' I was reflecting that. If you could carry that earnestness and naturalness of manner to the stage, instruction would almost be an act of superegregation. But you do not know the difficulty of representing in public that which is easy to feel or to simulate in private. A thousand obstacles,' Stella interrupted him impatiently, "'do not talk to me of difficulty in obstacles. Every pursuit in life has difficulty in obstacles. Leave me to wage war with those. Will you help me? Will you fit me for what I am about to undertake?' Do not refuse. I should only make the attempt without you, and then I might fail. If you really persist in venturing, let me caution you. Now do not damp my ardour with wet-blanket cautions. I dare say I shall encounter remonstrouses enough. So I make my declaration of independence at once. I give you fair warning that I shall listen to no one, since my mother has yielded her opposition.' Mr. Oakland saw that it was useless to check the headstrong girl. Since she had strength and ability equal to her perseverance, she possessed the chief elements of success. What shall I study first? In what character shall I make my debut? You must inform me first in what theatre you expect to appear, and with what privileges? Oh, of course, in New York, with my brother, and with all sorts of privileges, no fear about that. But there is fear. It may not be so easy to procure an engagement. You do not know the difficulties. There, you will fill my ear with difficulties again. Do make him stop Mrs. Oakland, and ask him to advise me what I shall study. Well, then, young impetuosity, I should advise Shakespeare's heroines. At least let your school be high. You can study Imogen, Desdemona, and Ophelia, and Beatrice, and Roslyn, and Portia, and Viola, and Juliet, and Cordelia at once. Will that satisfy you? It delights me. I will begin immediately. What? To study them all together? What the theatrical prodigy you intend to be? And with a memory as capacious as Gargantua's mouth? Now don't laugh at me. I mean, I'll begin with one, oh, Juliet, I think. I should delight to personate Juliet. We will select that for my debut. And Ernest will enact my Romeo. There, that's settled. Now for the rest. When may I begin to read with you? Had you not better wait until you hear what your brother advises? No, no. Wait. That's impossible. His answer will make no difference. Is he not an actor himself? Does he not openly confess to honour the stage? How can he object to my becoming an actress? Tell me when I may commence. Why not now, this very moment? Here is the Shakespeare temptingly ready. And she commence turning over the leaves in search of Romeo and Juliet. Mr. Oakland laughed as he took the volume from her hand. Not so fast, my dear little histrionic candidate.  We can't build up this theatrical roam of yours in a day. I expect a clerical pupil in a few moments. Shakespeare must give way to the Episcopal service, which I am to read with him. Then when shall I commence? Shall it be tomorrow? Yes, tomorrow, at this hour. Thank you a thousand times, my kind friend. You may be sure I shall be punctual. Day after tomorrow I will bring you my brother's letter, and we shall know everything. I may say truly, with Juliet, tis twenty years till then. And so goodbye. Goodbye, Mrs. Oakland. Party is such sweet sorrow, et cetera, et cetera. Stella returned home, elated by her interview. Shakespeare's Juliet engrossed her entire thoughts for the remainder of that day. She dwelt in wonder over the affluent imagery, the luxuriance of metaphor with which Juliet's language teams. But it was not merely the text of the peerless bard that she studied. Her mind grappled with his conceptions of the enamored maiden, whose whole being is made captive by a passion as sudden and pure as it must have proved constant. Stella pondered upon the depth and rich variety of Juliet's attributes. The girlish simplicity, the fiery impulsiveness, the heroism born of suffering, the rapid transition through the inky touch of love, from unexpanded girlhood to perfect womanhood, all these revelation of characters she grasped intuitively. But could she portray them? Could she compel an audience to exclaim, this is no counterfeit presentation but a living portrait of Shakespeare's unrivaled creation? She would gladly have passed the night in her fascinating occupation. But this attempt, the prudent maddie successfully opposed. Sleep touched the young girl's eyes but lightly, and in brief and broken visits. When she appeared at breakfast, her manner was so abstracted that even her unobservant mother's attention was aroused. Stella hardly tasted the food before her. Her eyes were fixed as though upon some far-off object. Now and then she muttered a few indistinct words, or involuntarily uttered them aloud. Dear Stella, I am afraid you are ill. Oh mother, no, I am only studying a part, and it interests me so much, I cannot think of anything else. Is that all, returned her mother, languidly? The appointed hour was just striking. And Stella passed through the garden entrance to Mr. Oakland's residence. The greeting of her tutor was brief and grave. Reflection had only added to the unwillingness with which he had yielded to her request. But her absorbed attention as she listened to his analysis of Juliet's complex traits, her rapid seizure of his ideas when he pointed out a line of demarcation between the graceful embodiment that would be charming in a drawing-room, and the strongly marked lights and shadows requisite in the wide arena of a theatre, the protean changes of her speaking countenance, her concentration of mind, and total self-forgetfulness perforced to spell his reluctance. When she began to read, her crude but striking conceptions totalled him into a sensation very closely akin to enthusiasm. Her talent vindicates her determination, he ejaculated mentally. This diamond needs but polished proclaim its true water. But no such language passed his lips. He was no spin-thrift of his praises. Stella was still reading when Mrs. Oakland gently opened the door. Surely the hour is not out, exclaimed the young girl. Yes, and another hour has gone with it, and a third is beginning to follow them. Mrs. Oakland affectionately saluted her, and then added, I knew how completely absorbed you must be, and I would not have interrupted you, but a class has been waiting for some time. Two hours gone, is it possible, said Mr. Oakland, rising, I must bid you a hasty good morning. May I come to-morrow at the same hour? I suppose I must be compelled to say yes. I should not listen to no, replied Stella, playfully. Tomorrow I will bring my brother's letter. She returned home, and instantly resumed her studies. She had now reached the potions scene.   Maddie's quick ears caught the sound, and she ran from the room. Stella looked confusedly about her. She saw her mother's pale consternation, and Maddie's look of alarm, and tried to collect her scattered thoughts. She swept back her long tresses, that had broken their bands, and fell into shoveled clusters around her face, wiped the cold dew from her forehead, and tried to force a smile, as she said, It's nothing, mother, I was only studying a part. Studying a part, my dear, with that fearful outcry? You terrify me! What is coming over you, Stella? Your eyes look as wild as though you were losing your senses. No, no, mother, only losing my identity in Juliet's!  She laid her book aside, and seated herself by her mother's side. It was some time since Miss Rosenveld had been so completely roused. She even asked her daughter a few questions concerning the character she was studying. Mrs. Rosenveld had seen Juliet enacted years ago. She spoke of her impressions, but they brought back some painful memory. Her eyes gradually filled, and she relapsed into silence. Stella looked wistfully at her book, but feared to disturb her mother if she stole back to the sofa where it was lying. The usual hour for retiring was near. She rejoiced when she found herself alone in her little chamber, alone with the shadowy Juliet, who seemed to exist within her and beside her. They were not parted in dreams. Stella awoke from her fitful slumbers vehemently crying out, Dash out, my desperate reigns! Those words haunted her. Numberless times during the night they broke involuntarily from her lips. And when the sun peered forth the golden window of the east, she found herself repeating them still. While she was making her toilette, she caught sight of her own countenance reflected in the mirror, just as she again unconsciously uttered the frantic ejaculation. She gazed and wondered at the haggard, terrified expression, and then laughed to see the look changed to one of surprise. It seemed to her as if she were scanning the face of another. She indeed was losing her own identity. At the earliest hour that Mel could possibly arrive, Maddie was hurried to the post office. Stella awaited her brother's answer with feverish expectation. She stationed herself at the window to watch. The instant her messenger came into sight, before she could reach the porch, the door was thrown open. The letter! The letter! Give me my brother's letter! There was no letter, miss. No letter? Impossible! Has the post come in? I inquired, and the clerk said it was in, and the morning Mel distributed. Oh, Maddie, you've made some mistake. Do go back again. The clerks have overlooked the letter. I know there is one. Make them find it! Maddie was only too ready to gratify the whims of her beloved young lady. She trudged back to the post office and duly tormented the clerk with her positive assurance that he had mislaid the letter, and must look again. He looked. There was no letter. Stella's impatient temperament did not help her bear the disappointment. But she had no alternative. She returned to the study of Juliet, and soon even her brother's missing epistle was forgotten. Stella's second lesson with her tutor differed from the first. In the fine development of her sentient faculties, her reflective powers. Mr. Oakland discovered germs of highest promise, but he found that her enthusiasm barely ran riot. He devoted himself to the difficult task of curbing its exuberance, toning down her too strong coloring and illustrating the dangers of extravagance, even though it be true to nature. A refined audience invariably feel the disenchanting effect of exaggeration. They unavoidably take that one fatal step which lies between the sublime and the absurd. But Mr. Oakland's faith in his pupil's success was undiminished. He knew that it was easier to rein in enthusiasm than it was to in spirit tameness. The one is the handmaiden of genius, the other the never-failing companion of mediocrity. Chapter 2 of Mimic Life Or Before and Behind the Curtain A series of narratives by Anna Cora Moet Ritchie This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Kelly Taylor Chapter 2 of Stella Stella's first thought the next morning was of the anticipated letter. The ever-willing Maddie was dispatched to the post office long before it was possible for the letter to be delivered. During her absence, Stella's restless spirit lengthened the minutes to hours, through its tormenting disquietude. At last her straining eyes caught sight of Maddie in the distance. She carried something white in her hand and walked at a rapid pace. But that quick tread was slow to the expectant girl. She darted out of the room and returned in an instant, exultantly holding up the letter. It has come, mother, my brother's letter. Now all is right, all is arranged. Read it out loud, dear, will you, replied her mother in a more animated tone than usual. Stella had already torn open the seal, destroying a portion of the riding. Her eyes glanced rapidly over the page. The paper shook in her hands. Gradually her countenance changed. The mentelling blood flew back from her cheeks. The delighted expression died out of her eyes. She read silently and on to the clothes. And then the letter fell from her nervous grasp. What ails you? What does your brother say? Stella drew herself up with a look of resolution, almost of defiance and exclaimed, Why should it matter? It shall not matter. Nothing now shall turn me from my purpose. Ernest should have known me better. She gave the letter to her mother, paced the room with an agitated step. Her hands clasped over her head, her favorite attitude, in deep meditation. Mrs. Rosenvelt with great deliberation, as though she had been called upon to make some overpowering effort, turned to her son's letter and read, New York, March, blank, 18, blank. Sweetest sister in the world. I took a day to reflect upon your letter. And the delay has not altered my first conviction, Stella. You know well that I reverence the profession which I adopted from choice. I toil in it with delight. I glory in the rough road over which, step by step, I may climb to eminence. You also know that I look upon none of the world's baseless prejudices as more false, more vulgar, than that which presupposes that a woman who enters this profession hazards her spotless character, or is even subjected to more than ordinary temptations. If the lodestar of purity dwell in her heart, it attracts to itself only that which is pure. If light thoughts inhabit there, and evil passions convulse in her breast, then may the stage prove perilous. What place is safe to such infected blood? Many infortunates have brought their frailties here, and thus desecrated our temples of art. But I do not believe that through the consequences of the profession, one chaste woman, Erl, for you, my sister, whose mind has been precepts strengthened, whose spirit is, in strong proof of chastity, well armed, I should have no fears of shoals and quicksands.  I implore you to abandon all thoughts of the stage as a profession. Your talents may qualify you for its adoption. Your temperament and education do not. The sense of fitness produced by the former is neutralized by the latter. To procure you an engagement here would not be possible. The only two positions you could hold are permanently occupied.  True, my salary is limited at this moment, but it will provide in a moderate way for you and my mother. But the future is rich in promise, and they will not be of long duration. Will you trust your brother's judgment? Will you heed his warning? Will you not? Say yes, and that you pardon him for gainsaying the beloved being whose wishes he never before thwarted. My love to our dear mother, take care of her, and for your own sake, and for that of your devoted brother, Ernest Rosenvelt. As Mrs. Rosenvelt finished the letter, she gazed with a trouble expression at her daughter, who was still pacing the room, her hands tightly clasped, her pale lips compressed, her whole soul evidently entombed. Stella, what Ernest says is so reasonable, so right. Right for him, mother, but wrong for me, should I heed him. Why should I sit with folded hands growing weary of my own purposeless existence, while he strains every nerve in the exercise of his faculties? To what end has heaven gifted me with equal talents if I am not to use them? Ask Mr. Oakland whether or not I possess them. Sensitive, excitable, and unaccustomed to hardships I may be, as he says, but what I am is not what I may become through fitting discipline. Pray be calm, Stella. It distresses me to hear you talk in that wild tone. What then do you propose to do? Not to discuss the matter with my brother. My arguments will not move him, nor have his moved me. But unless you forbid it, mother, and I pray you do not do so, I must still obey the dictates of this strong impulse within me. I must become an actress. How is it possible without your brother's assistance? I must make it possible. Only tell me that you do not oppose the attempt. No, not exactly, if there is no other way of contending you, but... Thank you, mother, and let me crush in the bud all butts. Now I must consult Mr. Oakland. We will pass over Stella's interview with her tutor. He took sides with her brother, and refused either to advise or assist her in attaining an engagement. Stella was disconcerted, but not conquered. Her self-reliant nature was not dependent upon extraneous support. That very afternoon she addressed letters to the managers of three theaters in Boston, earnestly requesting an immediate reply. She also wrote to her brother and apprised him of her unaltered determination. A week passed. Her letters to managers brought no answers. The reply from her brother showed that he counted upon the difficulty of obtaining an engagement and looked forward to her discouragement and final abandonment of the project. During the week, Stella paid daily visits to Mr. Oakland, and her studies were prosecuted as energetically as though every arrangement for her debut was concluded. Mr. Oakland imagined that her fever would be damped by the neglect on the part of the managers, an opposition on that of her brother. He might as well have hoped to see a fire quench by the adverse blowing of the wind, which only makes it blaze the higher. Is it not strange that I have received no reply, she inquired of the tutor? Not very, was his dry reply. The managers are not apt to notice letters which may emanate from pretenders of all sorts. They are generally looked upon as the effusions of stage-struck misses, who place an estimate upon their own abilities and the attractions which the public is not likely to have the complacence to endorse. And what shall I do to convince them that I do not belong to this class? I have already said that I would have no agency in this matter, that I would not even advise you. True, my dear, unconquerable mentor, I know that you are obstinate as obstinate as myself, if managers will not notice my letter, and if I cannot persuade anyone to intercede for me, there is but one alternate left. I must say the eloquence of my own tongue. I must plead in person. That is what I intend to do next. Do not be too sure of success, even then, remarked Mr. Oakland or accurately. At all events I echo the words of my country's hero, and I pin my faith to his colors. I'll try. So good morning. I do not better wait. I do not better reflect a while, urged Mr. Oakland, detaining her. There is no truer admission than the old friars. Too swift arrives as tawny as too slow. I am more inclined to heed him than was the impetuous youth whom his warning was wasted. They stumble who run fast may be true enough when the pulses beat sluggishly, but the rabid strokes of mine sound the alarm for instant action. So bestow upon me one good benedicte, good friar Lawrence, and let me be gone. The next morning, accompanied by the fateful Maddie, Stella presented herself at the front entrance of a theatrical establishment which in those days held the highest rank in Boston. She drew back, to escape notice, and desired Maddie to inquire at the box office if Mr. Grimshaw could be seen. How many tickets? What circle? Asked a gruff boys. None, thank you. The lady wishes to see the manager. This is not the place to inquire. And what is the place? Questioned Maddie, prompted by Stella's whisper. Make it there, my good woman, you are preventing people from coming up to get their tickets. Get out, will you?" Maddie was retiring, but Stella whispered to her again. It's on business, sir. We would be obliged for you to inform us which way we should inquire. Private entrance, round the corner. Make your way there, I say. Stella was glad to retreat, the crowd of ticket purchasers gathering around the box office, surveyed her with impertinent glances. The private entrance. She and Maddie sought for it in vain. They went round the corner, according to direction, trying the nearest corner, then inspecting the furthest corner, and then the first corner again. They expected to discover a place of admission resembling the lady's entrance to some fashionable hotel. Ask that boy, said Stella, designating a well-dressed youth who was intently perusing the playbill. Maddie made the inquiry. The stripling hardly raised his eyes from the promised dramatic feast, as he gave vent to a careless, don't bother me. Stella accosted him herself. He looked up at the sound of her musical voice, evidently mistaking her from the nature of her question, for some young actress recently engaged. He bowed and said in a tone of sudden interest, allow me to show you. He pointed out a small, rough-looking door which opened up into a narrow alleyway. Stella was disconcerted at the uninviting locality. She pressed close to Maddie and grasped her dress with vague fear as they entered. The young girl took a step or two, then hesitated and stopped. Which way must we go to see the manager? You'll find a door at the end of the passage which opens into the theater, but as you appear to be strangers, permit me to lead the way. They followed him through the close and by no means odoriferous or cleanly alley. There was a door at the end upon which the youth loudly knocked. It was opened by an individual with a rubricant face and heavy, bloodshot eyes. Show this lady to Mr. Grimshaw's office, said the boy with an authoritative air. It conveyed the impression that the lady in question was expected by Mr. Grimshaw and had the right to enter. Stella gracefully thanked her escort and, with Maddie, followed the sleepy doorkeeper. At first they appeared to be in an almost total darkness. She could not imagine into what part of the theater they had been ushered. What was that Maddie struck against? He clearer the wings, drawled out their slumberous guide. They were behind the scenes, then, that mysterious haunt of melpomony, uterpe, terpsichore, into which she had so long to intrude. Behind the scenes of a theater, ah, indefinite, wondering awe began to steal over her, but hardly of the kind which cries out, Put the shoes from off thy feet! Through winding nooks and passages crowded with scenery hardly visible in the dim light, they followed their conductor, trying to peer into the gloom and fathom some of the supposed marvels of the theatrical labyrinth. He knocked at a door. In tone, sounded from within, in such a deep, suporcoral tone it might have appropriately issued from a tomb, a stage-tomb, or been uttered by the ghost of Hamlet. A lady for you, sir! The man threw open the door and retraced his steps along the untrodden ways which Stella had just threaded for the first time. Seated at a table, which was covered with play-bills and manuscript, was a grim-looking man in a would-be heroic attitude. His long, shaggy hair fell around a cadaverous visage. His dark eyes were studiously fierce. His attire had a melodramatic air, from a tie of the cravat to the cut of his coat. Mr. Grimshaw was an actor as well as a manager. He belonged to that numerous class of thespians who never ceased personating their favourite character, to whom the world is as much a stage as the actual boards. Stella's courage began sensibly to ooze away. While fervently she wished herself out of the dramatic lion's den. Mr. Grimshaw, I believe, she murmured timidly. Even so, replied the unearthly voice. I think you received a letter, signed Stella Rosenvalt, about a week or so. Proceed! Stella fancied. His tone had sunk a portentous octave lower. I am Stella Rosenvalt. She seated herself unbidden. Maddie had offered a chair. Proceed! I am desirous. I am seeking, that is. It is my wish to obtain an engagement in some theatre. This one, if possible. What line? Still with tragic intonation. I beg pardon, sir. What did you say? What line? I do not understand. What business? My business I have just told you, sir. What line of business? The words were thundered out with a touch of regal wrath. The stage, sir, as I said before. The manager rolled his eyes at the marvellous unsophistication of this person, to whom he condescended to give audience. What have you acted? Nothing as yet, sir. Novice. Yes, sir. Want situation? Yes, sir. What line? Sir? Tragedy? Comedy? Walking lady? Seeing chambermaid, what line? Wind up the watch of your wit and strike. Oh, exclaimed Stella, comprehending at last. Such characters as Juliet and Desdemona and Portia. Juvenile tragedy, my favourite business. Give us a taste of your quality. Waving his hand majestically. Sir? Anything? Don't matter what. A touch of the tragic, if you like. But suit the action to the word, the word to the action. With this special observance that you all step, not the modesty of nature. For anything so overdone is not the purpose of playing. Who is in, both at the first and now, was and is to hold, as it were. The mirror up to nature to show, virtue of our own features. Score on her own image, and the very age and body of time is for my pressure. This memorable injunction was delivered by Mr. Grinshaw, with a stilted declamation that admirably illustrated the old saying, Do as I preach, not as I do. Stella trembled from head to foot, as she falteringly asked, Shall I recite Portia's address to Shiloth? Proceed! After a moment's hesitation, she rose, paused, been in an uncertain husky tone commenced. The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle dew from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed. It blesses him that give, and him that takes. As mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes the throwned monarch better than his crown. His scepter shows the force of temporal power. The attribute to awe and majesty, wherein doth sit the fear and dread of kings, but mercy is above the sceptered sway. It is enthroned in the hearts, the door opened, Stella ceased. A bold visage, but handsome female, in showy attire, entered the rooms. Hearts echoed she contiptuously. Hearts! Really, I hope I don't intrude, as Paul Pry says. Silence, ejaculated Mr. Grimshaw, note you, not this young person, hath into bondage brought my two diligent ear. Only diligent, when there's mischief brewing, retorted the lady, glancing rudely at Stella. Mr. Grimshaw gave her a ferocious look, then turned to the frightened girl, and instantorian voice cried out, Proceed! The hearts of kings, continued Stella. It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, she paused. The scornful eyes of her new auditor took away her voice, and dimmed her memory. Proceed! repeated Mr. Grimshaw, but Stella was unable to comply, she dropped silently into her seat. The entertaining really was the sarcastic, feminine comment. I ought to apologize for interrupting your private theatricals, Stella turned hodlily to the manager. Did I understand you, sir, that you might possibly give me an engagement? An engagement, almost freaked the lady. You ventured, you dared to promise her an engagement in this theater, when the leading parts, such as I presume she has the impertinence to inspire to, from what I heard her spouting, all belong to me. Madam, exclaimed the manager, pleasurably excited at the prospect of a scene in real life. Madam, and he thrust his long fingers through his tangled hair. Doubt me not, but listen. I have listened, and hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear. Stella could endure this contest no longer. She rose with dignity, and said, I have evidently misunderstood you, sir, and I must bid you good morning. May I beg that you will order someone to show me the way out? Show you the way out? Repeated the lady, with an insolent laugh. Nothing will do with more pleasure, and you needn't remember your road back. Nick, called Mr. Grimshaw to a boy who was passing the door with a basket on his shoulder, show these ladies through the front entrance. It's the guide you generally give your pupils, but your paths are usually the back ways. Stella and Maddie could not avoid hearing this coarse remark as the door was slammed to behind them. Descending a stairway they soon found themselves in the box office, and a moment afterwards in the street. Stella checked her attendant's affectionate volubility with, It's too dreadful, I can't talk of it, Maddie. Let's hasten us home, my head is whirling. She had not abandoned her scheme, but her resolution had received a shock. Leaving Maddie to give her own account of their adventure to Mrs. Rosenvelt, Stella retired to her chamber, deeply mortified, and inclined to chide every breather living. With her mercurial temperament this mood could not last.  She resolved to implore her brother to furnish her with a letter of introduction to some manager of standing. That would smooth her way. She would deliver it in person and doubtless procure the desired engagement. A morning paper was lying before her. Of late she had read all the theatrical intelligence. Other public news possessed little interest. Her eyes rested upon a eulogistic obituary of Miss Lydia Talbot, a young actress whose loss the dramatic community was loudly lamenting. As the stock star of a popular theatre in Boston, she had shown several years in the dramatic firmament. The writer remarked that no actress yet had been found upon whose shoulder her mantle could worthily fall. A crowd of hopes rushed with headlong impetuosity into Stella's quick-suggesting brain. They filled the atmosphere with rainbow tints and lifted her up on soaring wings. She glanced at the next column, and every hope assumed form and substance and stood before her a reality. The manager of the theatre, to which Miss Talbot formerly belonged, advertised that the situation of leading lady in his theatre was vacant. He invited immediate application from gifted members of the profession. The hours between ten and three that day were appointed for the personal reception of candidates. Eureka cried Stella internally. She turned to the clock. It wanted a quarter of ten. Before the hour sounded, she and Maddie were on their way to the theatre. End of chapter two. Section three of Mimic Life by Anna Koromawit Ritchie This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Stella Chapter three Mr. Belton was not a manager of the ordinary stamp. The mania of speculation, with which the larger numbers of his confrers were afflicted, had not lured him into becoming the autocrat of the theatre. A genuine passion for the profession, a desire to promote its interests, combined perhaps with a natural love of rule, rendered him a theatrical lycee. He looked upon the members of his company as an incongruous family circle, of which he was the all-potent head. He regarded his audience as a bevy of captious friends whom he condescended to amuse and instruct. He took pleasure in noticing the same well-known faces nightly scattered through his boxes. One cluster of veritable habituaries, who congregated in the stage-box, he invariably watched. Through their approval or dissent to a performance his judgments were silently swayed. He comprehended and revered the social influence of the drama. He was conscientious and never intentionally ministered to a matriculous or viviated taste. In his disbursements Mr. Belton was strictly economical, but rigidly just. The salaries he allowed were not large, but they were always certain. His company was, perhaps, too limited, but its members labored amicably and indefectively. Some of the subordinates rejoiced in two sets of cogniments, on the bills, and were adepts in doubling characters. But it was the unanimous opinion that double duty under Mr. Belton's management was lighter than single duty in more pretentious establishments, where less system and justice reigned. It was almost a misfortune for Mr. Belton that he was endowed with histrionic talent. In common with the generality of actors he mistook his own forte. As a comedian he would have shown preeminent. His rotund figure, jolly face, the merry twinkle of his eye, the bonomie of his whole manner particularly fitted him for humorous personations. But Mr. Belton detested comedy. High tragedy was his aspiration. He would have rather been hissed as leer than applauded as dogberry. As he was the sole arbiter in his theatre no one could remonstrate against his assumption of the tragic heroes, that is to say, no one but the audience, and they now and then availed themselves of the privilege. When the sound of merriment greeted his ears instead of the expected burst of applause, Mr. Belton gravely asked what the people could be laughing at. Ah, well, he would console himself by saying, we must educate our audience until they comprehend us, nothing like elevating an audience to one's own standard, besides they have been so much accustomed to laugh when I intended to be funny that they never understand me when I show them how high tragedy ought to be acted. The decease of Miss Talbot had left the theatre of vacancy difficult to be filled. Mr. Belton was sitting in his office, searching the morning papers for favourable notices when he was informed that several ladies had called in answer to his advertisement. Show them up one at a time. First come, first served, remember, a fair chance for all. Then as the messenger left the room he added, there will be no contending the public no matter whom I engage. They'll sure to be say she can't step into the shoes of poor Lydia. Three young dramatic aspirants in turn obtained an interview. All three passed out of the theatre with downcast countenances. Stella, accompanied by her usual attendant, was now ushered into the presence of Mr. Belton. She was prepared to encounter a second edition of Mr. Grimshaw. Mr. Belton's courteous reception and gentleman-like bearing quickly placed her at ease. She briefly made known her wishes. Mr. Belton listened with an air of interest. He requested her to read. With prompt self-possession she delivered the animated dialogue which takes place from Juliet's moonlighted balcony between the lovers of Verona. Mr. Belton's countenance expressed more than he framed into language. His internal policy is cherry of praise. He allowed her to resume her seat in silence. His internal ejaculation was—how fortunate! She has unquestionable talent, grace, freshness, beauty. She may perhaps replace our Lydia. You probably have no idea, Miss Rosenvelt, of the arduous duties incumbent upon every member of this profession. Like immanence is not compatible with a life of ease and pleasure. I know something of the mode of life, sir. My brother is an actor. Still, it is better that we should understand each other. My company say that they work harder than any other, perhaps they do. If you engage with me, I shall expect your energies to be at my command. You may be disheartened at first at the amount of study requisite. Then I cast all my plays myself and allow no dictation. Though I endeavor to be just, I permit no refusing of parts, no contention about the manner in which the names shall appear upon the bills. The interests of my companies are my interests, and that must content them. I think there shall be no difficulty, sir. Then I will make you the offer of a trial engagement. Mr. Tennant commences with me on Monday next. Miss Talbot was to have supported him. You can occupy her place, but I warn you that the public will demand a great deal from any successor of hers. Your name shall appear second to Mr. Tennant's at the head of the bills. If you succeed, you can keep it there. If you make a great hit and sustain it by performances, your name in time will be placed first. Your line of business will, of course, be juvenile, tragedy, and comedy. Occasionally you may be called upon to attempt heavy tragedy. That depends upon the plays which Mr. Tennant selects. I will keep you out of after-pieces for a while, but you must prepare yourself to appear in them when you are a little more familiar with the stage. Stella could with difficulty conceal a rush of tumultuous emotions as she asks, In what character am I to make my debut? Mr. Belton referred to Mr. Tennant's last letter. First night, Virginia's. Second night, Othello. Good. You will make your debut in Virginia, and next night appear in Desdemona. That will do admirably. Your powers will not be too severely taxed. You will not be over-weighted at the first start. You will gradually become accustomed to the foot-lights. Perhaps you are not aware of their terrifying effect upon novices. I scarcely think I shall feel alarmed, said Stella confidently. Could you favour me with a list of the other characters which I shall be required to study? Mr. Tennant has only selected his plays for the first two nights. He acts with me for one fortnight. Unfortunately the plays will not be settled upon until he arrives. But what time should I have then even to memorise my parts? The same time that the other ladies have, returned Mr. Belton carelessly. Here is a list of all the dramas which Mr. Tennant has acted when he was here last. He will repeat most of them. If you choose, you can study haphazard so as to be up in as many pieces as possible. I will study them all, thought Stella. Nothing darned. Without examination she folded up the list. When will there be a rehearsal? Well might she hesitate. That word brought so forcibly to mind all that was before her. Let me see. Mr. Tennant will not be here before Monday morning.  On Monday you will rehearse with Mr. Tennant. We must manage with two rehearsals. They are not enough, I admit. Oh! Quite enough, I daresay! And Stella rose to depart. She was impatient to return home that the pin-up sensations which agitated her breast might find vent. You have forgotten one very important part of the business, one of which actors are not usually oblivious. The small term of salary? Hamlet said the lover shall not sigh gratis. Oh! Yes, I did forget. But I leave that to you. Of course it will be all right. Rather a loose way of doing business, not after my style at all. Pray be seated for another moment. I shall not pretend to offer you the salary that I gave Miss Talbot. You must first render yourself so valuable to my establishment that you can command the same renumeration. Five years ago in this very room, yes, in that very armchair where you are sitting, she signed her first contract with me for Lydia. Mr. Belton paused and hymned, and turned over the playbills hastily as though he were fearful of betraying an emotion in the presence of this young girl, which before the footlights in the eyes of the public he would not have thought of repressing. After a moment he cleared his throat, a tell-tale huskiness, and resumed. Her salary, her salary at that time was thirty dollars per week. I offer you the same terms for your first two weeks. After that there may be an increase. Are you satisfied? Perfectly. And again, Stella rose to the part. Be seated, pray, be seated. Words are not bonds. Stella sat down, evidently chafing at the delay, and rendered uncomfortable by the prosaic business details to which she was wholly unused. Mr. Belton drew up two contracts, and, signing them himself, requested Miss Rosenvelt's signature. He then presented her with one, and carefully placed the other on his desk. For the third time Stella started up, and now Mr. Belton conducted her to the door. She could not return home without communicating her success to Mr. Oakland. He was engaged with a class when she called at his residence, but she petitioned for a moment's interview. When he came to the door she recounted, in a scarcely coherent manner, her morning's adventure, and, without waiting for his deliberate reply, hastened home, and roused her apathetic mother with her startling story. It wanted but ten days of the evening fix for her debut, and how much remained to be accomplished, parts to be studied, material for dresses to be selected, costumes to be decided upon, and fashion for historical authority. Stella was guided by Mrs. Oakland's chaste and refined taste in her choice of her stage attire. They agreed that the external draping and adorning should be a manifestation of the character assumed. Mr. Oakland advocated the severest simplicity. He detested the tawdry ostentation of stage heroines in general, and argued that prodigality of ornament oftener concealed than set forth real charms. Maddie, and a nimble-fingered assistant, set plying their needles in Mrs. Rosenveld's chamber from daylight until midnight. Even Mrs. Rosenveld herself now and then ran a seam, or bound on a trimming. She found the bustling, occupied manner of everyone around her irresistibly contagious. On Friday evening Stella received a note which rendered her already perturbed brain giddy with agitation. The epistle contained but these cabalistic words. Virginia's, rehearsed, ten o'clock, Saturday morning, April, blank, blank. Tobias also propped her, called. It was her first call to the theater. Until now she had seemed to herself to be moving through some excited dream, but this bit of tangible paper, which she could touch and gaze upon, suddenly made it all real. Could she venture to a rehearsal, a first rehearsal, alone, or only accompanied by Maddie? Impossible. True, she felt confident of receiving the utmost courtesy from the actors. Mr. Belton was so kind himself, yet the presence of a friend was disdain her. Mr. Oakland must be pressed into surface. That gentleman received her request with undisguised coldness. His scruples were not easily combatted. He had wielded the critic's pin at one period of his life, and unsparingly pointed out the shortcomings of certain members of the profession. He looked for resentment from those who were not wise enough to kiss the rod. He essayed to convince Stella that his presence could not serve her within the circuit of any Boston theater. She still pleaded, earnestly, unanswerably, and at last rung from him a slow consent. The hand of time was on the stroke of ten when Mr. Oakland, the next morning, conducted her through the private entrance of the theater to the dimly lighted stage. From many theaters the outer light is wholly excluded, even in the daytime, and gas usurps the place of sunshine. But in this the sunbeams struggle through distant windows, often intercepted by detached wings of scenery, but shedding light sufficient to lift the gloom out of positive darkness. Gas was dispensed with except when the sky was wholly overcast. Stella glanced wonderingly at the bare stage, intersected by tawdry scenes, on which dust and paint were emically united, the mechanical stage, auxiliaries, the dark-looking pit, the tears of empty boxes fronted with dingy devices. What glamour could transform this dismal region to the realm of enchantment which had ever appeared to her young eyes? What magical touch could invest these terrine, prosaic surroundings with poetic grace and witchery? How many illusions melted away as she stood transfixed, mutely gazing on the unsightly objects that environed her? The stage was unoccupied as they entered. A slendered, salo-faced young man now appeared, bearing a table. He placed it on the right, close to the footlights, or rather to the semi-circular range which would become the footlights at night. This individual bestowed upon Mr. Oakland and his pupil a few furtive glances, but no salutation. He laid upon the tables, pens, ink, paper, playbills, prompt books, and then took his seat, and was soon busily employed in writing. Is there nobody here, whispered Stella, in a tone not wholly free from awe? It has just struck ten, and the actors are allowed ten minutes' grace, replied Mr. Oakland. I believe they will generally avail themselves of the extra moments. Come and walk with me up and down the stage before they arrive. You must get accustomed to its length and breadth. Stella had never found it so difficult to command her limbs. She half stumbled and clung to Mr. Oakland's arm for support. Her fancy people, those vacant boxes with whole critical eyes that froze her blood, paralyzed her faculties, metamorphosized her into a dull, insincere clod. The reflex of the glaring shows around her. You are nervous, said Mr. Oakland, with concern. A little, not very, that is, not at all. And she made a desperate attempt to rally. The next person that emerged from the darkness behind the scenes was a boy about eleven years old. His consequential bearing as he trod the stage, betrayed that he already ate the heirs of self-important manhood. He deliberately scanned Stella and Mr. Oakland without removing his cap. Then with mock solemnity marched to the prompter's table, as he inspected the long strip of paper which contained his calls, the words, those individuals, novice, wonder if she's got anything in her, were under in one of those convenient stage whispers which are intentionally audible. Stella's perturbation momentarily increased. She began to feel certain that she would be guilty of some inexcusable gocheree. Make your call, Fisk, sang out Mr. Alsop, the prompter, as loudly as though the boy at his side were stationed at some invisible distance. Master Fisk recrossed the stage, giving a ludicrous imitation of a high tragedy gate, a mode of progression which requires one foot to be placed at the greatest possible distance in advance of the other, and the backwards foot slowly drawn along to meet its companion, the dragging process being scrupulously repeated at each step. Fisk's voice was then heard shouting lustily to the greenroom door. First act of Virginia's, sirvious, nieces, Virginia's, all the Roman citizens. The call-boy then strutted back to his place by the prompter's side. Virginia's and Titus' not come. At this moment Mr. Belton appeared, accompanied by his stage manager, Mr. Finch. He greeted Stella somewhat stiffly. His manner now implied that he had no words to spare. All must be business now. Mr. Finch was introduced. Stella presented Mr. Oakland. Mr. Belton bowed without extending his hand. Mr. Oakland did not offer his. All managers and almost all actors set their faces against the introduction behind the scenes of persons unconnected with the theatrical profession. Stella's disregard of this prejudice explained Mr. Belton's unusually chilling manner. Without exchanging another word with Stella, he turned to his prompter. Don't rehearse the whole play, Allsup. We only want Virginia's scenes for this young lady. Miss Rosenvilt, Mr. Allsup, Miss Allsup, Mr. Rosenvilt. Mr. Allsup bowed in the briefest manner. As Mr. Tenet is not here, read for him, continued the manager. Now, my dear, your entrance is from that side. These words were addressed to Stella. The familiar, my dear, caused the quick blood to rush to her cheek. She soon learned that the term is one in such constant use throughout all theaters that is of rendered meaningless by its indiscriminate application. Mr. Allsup rose, took his position in the center of the stage, and gave the cue. Soft, she comes. Stella grasped the side scene into which Mr. Belton had conducted her. She had lost all other power of motion.  Stella, with a faltering step, advanced toward Mr. Allsup. Well, Father, what's your will? Was uttered in a low, quavering tone. A voice soft, gentle and low, is an excellent thing in a woman, but not on the stage, remarked Mr. Belton. You'll have to speak twenty times louder than that at night. Better try your voice in the morning. It's far easier speaking in an empty theater than in a full one. Lift up your head, and throw out your words, as though you are talking to the furthest man in the gallery yonder. That's the rule. Stella's suffused countenance dropped lower and lower. All members of the company had gathered in the wings. She thought she read derision in their curious eyes. They were watching her, to detect and ridicule her insufficiencies. Tongue tied by confusion, she turned with a supplicating look to Mr. Oakland.  He bowed to Mr. Belton and said, Excuse me for infringing the rules. Then approach Stella. It is not yet too late, Stella. You can withdraw from this ordeal. Do you not feel that you are not qualified to pass through it triumphantly? That humiliating doubt recalled the high-spirited girl to herself. No, she answered, with recovered firmness, and then in a clear ringing tone repeated the first words of her part. She said, cried Belton, encouraging, that's what we want. Also read the eloquent language placed in the mouth of Virginia's as though he were stammering through a primer. Stella replied as Virginia, but, though she delivered every line and sat down in the text, she made but a futile attempt to embody the character. The words she articulated lacked expression, the business air with which the manager surveyed her, the proctor's unmeaning reading, this disenchanting locality, hurled romance from her aerial throne, annihilated all poetic inspiration, and clogged the wings of fancy with a commonplace matter-of-fact heaviness. As she varied her position on the stage and made her exits and entrances according to Mr. Belton's directions, she seemed to herself a conscious automaton, deprived of reflection or self-guidance. Once she thought she heard a slight titter at the wing, doubtless at her expense. Mr. Belton called out in a commanding tone, order, order, and silence was restored. Dintetas hobbled on stage with the assistance of a pair of crutches. Miss Rosenvelt, Mr. Martin, Mr. Martin, Miss Rosenvelt, said the manager, both parties bowed. When Virginia's and Dintetas exaunt, Virginia is left alone. Stella found the soliloquy which she was then required to deliver far more difficult of utterance than the brief replies to her father and Dintetas. Mr.  Their eyes all fastened on her countenance. Her memory was at fault. Mr. Alsup gave her the word, that confused her more, she stammered in endeavor to proceed. He prompted her a second time, and now, instead of the tender, fervent tone in which she had again and again rehearsed that very passage in her own chamber, she found herself repeating the words after the prompter with a parrot-like intonation, as though she had never heard them before and had no comprehension of their sense. E. Ikyllis enters, exclaiming, Virginia, sweet Virginia! Miss Rosenvelt, Mr. Swain, Mr. Swain, Miss Rosenvelt, interrupted Mr. Belton. E. Ikyllis paused to bow, then continued. Sure, I heard my name pronounced, etc., etc. This gentleman belonged to that numerous class of actors who considered rehearsals a necessary bore. He gabbled with telegraphic speed over the language of E. Ikyllis, gliding one word into the other without attempting to convey any meaning by the enigmatic sounds. Rosenvelt was wholly ignored in this convenient style of declamation. How could Stella fancy herself the beloved Virginia of such a nimble-tongue brainless E. Ikyllis? The act ended, but no interval is allowed in rehearsal. In the next scene, Virginia's betrays his daughter to Icilius. The poetic principle with which Stella's whole nature was deeply imbued received its severest shock when all sub-drowned out the beautiful betrothing speech of Virginia's. It produced the same jarring sensation as a succession of false notes on the fine ear of musician and drew from her a suppressed groan. The love-making of Icilius, which followed, Icilius, who declares himself dissolved, overpowered with the munificence of this auspicious hours, was positively laughable. Under any other circumstances, Stella could not have kept her countenance as he rattled off at full speed. Oh, help me to a word will speak my bliss, or I am beggared. No, there is not one. There cannot be. For never meant to bliss like mine to name. It was obeying the noble dain's injunction to speak the word trippedly on the tongue with an original fidelity. Towards the close of the scene, Servia is summoned. Miss Rosenveld, Miss Fairfax, Miss Fairfax, Miss Rosenveld, said Mr. Belton. Miss Fairfax came late and missed her first scene. At Virginia's's charge to Servia to take his daughter in, Miss Fairfax encircles Stella's waist with her arm. The touch thrilled through the trembling girl. It was so tender, so gentle. Stella looked into the stranger's face. It was one of the most benign, that goodness and intellect ever allumed. When they reached the wing, Miss Fairfax remarked kindly, How cold your hands are! Even through your gloves they feel like ice. Must be the effect of nervous excitement. A first rehearsal is very trying, but you will soon get accustomed. Not music those words were, to the ears of the downcast girl. The heavenly music of sympathy descending into the troubled heart, the charming away its restless throes. Stella smiled gratefully, but could only answer, I am a little nervous, and you are very kind. Mrs. Fairfax replied by chafing the cold hands and warming them in her own. Virginia's next scene was very brief.  Miss Rosenfeld, Mr. Doran, Mr. Doran, Miss Rosenfeld, said Mr. Belton, they bowed. The next scene is in the third act. Claudius drags Virginia across the stage. Of course this business, as it is theatrically termed, is omitted at rehearsal. Virginia meekly walked by the side of Claudius, having been duly apprised that she would be dragged at night. Miss Rosenfeld, Mr. Conklin, Mr. Conklin, Miss Rosenfeld, said the punctilious Mr. Belton, as Virginia and Claudius met. Virginia is supposed to be fainting and does not speak during this scene. She next appears in the Roman forum as the captive of Apias, then in her uncle's house, and then for the last time before the tribunal. There she is stabbed by her father. These scenes were hurried through in a formal business-like way, and the rehearsal ended. Stella overheard Fisk remarking to the prompter in her irracular tone. Can't say it's a bit like it. Don't think there's anything in her. No go. Decidedly, no go. Mr. Belton made no comment on her performance. As he bade Stella good morning, and honoured Mr. Conklin with a distant bow. You will receive the call for Monday. Mr. Tennant will, of course, be here, were the manager's parting words. Stella returned home, thought-sick, disheartened, overwhelmed by a mental and bodily lassitude she had never experienced before. Mr. Conklin made not the slightest attempt to reassure her. Among the thronging images which rose up like phantoms to torment her, there was but one she could contemplate without a shudder, the mildly beaming face of Mrs. Fairfax. Was this the commencement of the career which she had pictured to herself as so inspiring, so full of exhilarating triumphs and delights? True she had encountered but trifles, but these were mere feathers that waited thus upon her spirits, but they were feathers of lead.


I would encourage safer routes on bikes. Use natural health care products. I think we can do more trees. Encourage car usage so you get more than one person in the car at the same time. Trams are the way to go.


Peter Chambers. Transcribed and starring as Peter Chambers, Dane Plot. A private eye. That's your business. Anything else? That's for laughs. You're not an early go-to-better, but this night for a change you've hit the sack fairly early.  Peter Chambers. Oh, yeah, yeah. Must I? Okay, I'll be there. Yeah, I'll get dressed and I'll be there as quickly as possible. Goodbye. Your midnight telephone caller is Miss Claire Connolly, press agent for a nightclub with the unusual name of, uh, the Hotspot. She worried about a small event that took place there maybe a half hour ago, a little thing called murder. Seems that the main attraction at the club, the band leader by name Johnny Silver, probably the most fabulously successful band leader in America, caught up with a slight but deadly dose of lead poisoning.  Claire Connolly is waiting for you outside.  It should have been looked over plenty by now, don't you have cops? The place is stinking with cops. It leads you in and you do what she asks you to do. You look. The Hotspot on 54th and 5th, the joint that's really jumping, owned by an ex-gangster named George Black, who doesn't have the gangster anymore for a living. This Hotspot is doing better legitimately than he can ever do illegitimately. Seems the excitement is over and the suckers are back eating and drinking and having good time. Claire takes you up to the office and there's nobody there except you and Claire. Now you've seen the joint. I've seen it before, honey. I wanted you to get a good look at the layout. Like I said, I've seen it before, dim lighting, a lot of atmosphere, bandstand for Johnny Silva's orchestra, and then the stage for Rita Dupre's dancing group and then the customers seated around little tables and upstairs at balcony running all around the joint. That's where he got it from, the balcony. How, what, and when? Maybe a half, three-quarters of an hour ago. Johnny Silva's on stage with his band, doing his latest composition, talking back to the blues. Suddenly there's a shot from the balcony and Johnny keels over, dead. And the gun? It was flung down from the balcony. Nobody touched it. Where is it now? The cops have it. And who per chance was on the balcony? No customers, if that's what you mean. This has been a comparatively quiet night. George Black seats nobody up here, not unless the downstairs is overcrowded. Well, let me see. He gets it from upstairs here from the balcony. No customers, so it figures for an inside job. It's pretty good for this hour of the night, huh? Good enough, since it's exactly what the police say. Who's in charge of the shindig? An old friend of yours and a good friend of yours, Detective Lieutenant Louis Parker. Oh, the best, honey, absolutely the best. And now my sweet, why me? I beg your pardon. Well, why pull me out of bed, unless it's sort of to save your own skin? We've been friends, Pete. We were very good friends a long time ago. Yeah, that was a long time ago. Now, we're friends. Well, it's been established that he was killed by George Black's gun, for which George has a license, of course. The gun was kept in an open drawer right here upstairs in this office. And I can come and go here as I please. So that makes you a suspect? Not entirely. But I know that I was heard to threaten him. Whom? Johnny Silver. When? Last night. Where? Right here in his office. By whom? By Rita Dupre. Well, let's hear about that. There's not much to hear. I found out that Johnny had been doing a terrible thing. True. Eddie Gale. Eddie Gale. Oh, he used to be a drummer with Johnny's band, his arranger. And then he retired, no? Yeah. Eddie's always here at the hotspot. He's here tonight. Anyway, when I found out what Johnny had been doing to Eddie, I talked to him. To Johnny, here in his office. I'm Johnny's press agent, too. Anyway, the upshot of it was an argument. Johnny fired me. Oh. But that wasn't all. Suddenly, he made a pass at me. We struggled, and I remember my saying, you ought to be killed.  Maybe I ought to do it myself. Well, those are threats, all right. Hey, I'm a real smart detective tonight. Well, in the heat of excitement, people say things like that without meaning them. In the truth. Anyway, Rita Dupre walked in just then, dressed as usual in that sultry dancing costume of hers. She heard me. So? So she'll give the cops an earful, no question. Oh, why? I thought you two were friends. Not anymore. Not when she saw me tussling with Johnny. Oh, you mean that Rita Dupre and Johnny Silver... I thought that was a press agent's concoction. It was. But she began to believe her notices. Happens. It's a real cock-eyed setup. George Black brought her here from the West Coast because he's nuts about her. She tells me to play up a phony romance between Johnny and Rita for the newspapers. She really starts going for Johnny. And George starts to do a slow burn. And then Johnny... Johnny suddenly starts going for me. A real merry-go-round. And a deadly one. But I didn't kill him, Pete. Believe me. What about that Eddie Gale deal? What did he tell you? But right there you get an interruption. An interruption in tandem. George Black and Detective Lieutenant Louis Parker. Well, Petey Chambers. Hi, Louis. I'll go to my grave and you'll pop up, huh? What are you doing here, Pete? Business, formal retainer by Miss Claire Connolly, services to be rendered. If you may need those services. I'd like to talk with you, Miss Connolly. Outside, please. Certainly, Lieutenant. So you're left along with George Black. George Black. Big, powerful and slightly sinister. Well, as long as you're here, pal, you can work for me, too. Like how? Like so. Here you are, pal. I'll take 500 bucks worth of your services. And the nature of such services, pal? Keeping me out of the jam jar. How far are you in the jam jar? Look, my gun killed him. Everybody around here knows I hated his guts. Why, Daddy-O? Because I don't like nobody fiddling with my girl. Rita, do you pray? Who else? Everybody always blames a guy rather than a gal. I get this straight. I don't care about everybody. I care about me. I'm stuck on Rita so I can't blame her. But that Johnny Silver.  It's like telling a fly to lay off molasses. Oh, excuse me. Rita, baby, come on in. Come on in, sweetie. Rita, do pray. Nobody's been stacked like that since clear Patrick. Black hair, black eyes, a patrician nose, listening red lips, and a costume while weep. It's a dance costume, red gloves to the elbows, red silk stockings to the hips, and the rest of it all red sequins and briefer than a shrunken bikini. Beautiful, ain't she? Yeah, yeah. She always walk around like this in the costume. Yes, I do. It's crazy to keep changing. Yeah, it's crazy. My dance group goes on eight times during the evening. Rita, do pray. Oh, no, Father George, we're well acquainted. Oh. Now don't, don't, don't start with that jealousy jiggle. I knew her from way back before she went to the West Coast, before she met you. That's true. We've been acquainted for much time. George, George Black. Yeah? Come on out here. My boys are back in the lab. I want to talk to you about the gun. Okay, Lieutenant. And so, as must happen sooner or later, you and I are alone again. With we, my love, you can drop that phony French accent. So? I knew you when you were Rita Dubberman and you were living in the Bronx. I am Rita Dubray and I was born in Paris. You are Rita Dubberman and you were born in the Bronx. I'm a French dances. And you're death on wheels to all men you think. Except I got a hunch to Johnny Silver, who in turn was death on wheels to all women. The beast. Oh, you can't take it, huh?  You can dish it out, but you can't take it. What's the matter? Johnny Boy pushed you around? I know what you're trying to do, but you're not going to trap me, not me. I did not kill him. Ask about that Claire. How she threatened him. I know all about that. So do not try to get funny with me. So I speak to George and then they find you in the river and you're wearing a cement zootsuit. Zootsuits are old-fashioned Rita. George Black is an old-fashioned man. Then you and Parker are sitting in a secluded spot listening to the strains of Johnny Silver's music, without benefit of Johnny Silver, and lapping up some of George Black's scotch on the house. The minute after he was shot, practically simultaneously the gun was thrown from the balcony. One of the waiters saw it coming down and he stood guard over it. Nobody touched it till we arrived. Now let me get the picture, Louis. Johnny Silver is on the bandstand playing his music. He gets shot from the balcony, one shot and he's dead. Then immediately the gun is flung down, George Black's gun, and the waiter stands guard over it until the cops come. Very good, Jill. Now you may take two giant steps. One, finger prints on the gun, Louis. Nothing, not a one. Clean as a whistle. And your suspects? No customers on the balcony, strictly an inside job. Only four people had any interest in Johnny Silver. George, Rita, Claire, and Eddie Gale. Yeah, yeah, Eddie Gale. Pete, guess what's the word on him? I give up. Only yesterday, right in this joint, I got this from two different waiters. Not what? He was heard to say about Johnny Silver, I'm gonna get that bum, I'm gonna get him good. That's what he was heard to say. Are you sure you don't want to drink, Louis? Oh, thanks, Pete, now what I'm working on. That's what he said. I'm gonna get that bum, I'm gonna get him good. Did he have access to George Black's gun? Oh, they all had access. He kept it in his office and a desk drawer. The drawer was open. Well, did you question him, this Eddie Gale?  Nervous little guys, always half loaded. Clammed with me, stayed clammy. Do you mind if I try? Yeah, I wish you would. One time I really wish you would. You know these musician types better than I do. Is he around? Yeah, sure. Say over there. Where? Corner tablet. Little Eddie Gale, looking like a lost soul.  Hi, Thomas. It's a pleasure to have some pleasurable company you I like. Hey, waiter, drink for my friend here. A couple of drinks for my friend. And a couple of drinks for my friend's friend. That's me. Eddie Gale, neatly dressed in sharp clothes, his shirt collar long and billowy. Eddie Gale, pale as death, his small wolf smile infinitely sad. Eddie Gale, small, slender and tense. You get the feeling you're near a high explosive with the fuse going fast. Well, he finally got it, Johnny Silver. Brother of my glad. Look, they're pointing the finger at you, pal. Yeah, first pointing the finger at me. Cops. The Johnny Snocker? Well, he got it from George Black's gun. That's George Black's headache. No, no, no, no. Guy wouldn't use his own gun. Sure he would if he wanted to as a cover-up. Then he says somebody clipped it out of his desk drawer. That drawer was always open. So was the door to his office. You see what I mean? See what you mean? No, I don't get you. Well, you knew where the gun was. You knew the office door was open and the desk drawer. Yeah, but... You knew your way around this club so you can get up to the balcony plus... What? Plus, the cops have a report that only yesterday you said I'm gonna get that bum and I'm gonna get him good. Wait a minute. I was gonna shoot lawyers at that bum, not bullets. For what? Claren mentioned some beef you had against him but she didn't say what. Is it because he fired you out of the band? I shouldn't be much. Any band would be glad to grab you. You're a great drummer and a great arranger. Thanks. It ain't that. Well, you haven't been working. That's only because they don't want to work. I don't need to see. I got plenty of scratch, Dad. What's the beef against Johnny Silver? That bum was a crook. What'd he steal? You know them songs Johnny's been writing? Talking back to the blues, all of them. Johnny Silver, the great new gush, when the new porter, the new urban Berlin. Yeah, I know. I wrote him. You wrote him? Me. I wrote him. Every place a tomb. You're kidding. Hope to die, Dad. Well, he was a funny kind of crook. Sweet Johnny Silver. He stole my soul. That's what he'd done. But he'd give me half the scratch. Do that a little slower, Eddie. Oh, once when I was with the band, see, I wrote a song and he thought it was great. Look, he says, look, Eddie Boy says, it's great, it's groovy, it's got schmaltz, but you gotta have weight to throw around in the music publishing world. Man, I got the weight, Eddie Boy. Meaning? Meaning he had a friend, Sam August. You know August records, August sheet music. Well, anyways, he brings the song to Sam August, says he wrote it, he, Johnny Silver, and Sam publishes. That's how the whole deal started. All his songs? You mean all the Johnny Silver compositions? Every great place said one of them. Ah, you give me half the profits right in the button, but after a while, that's no good. Money doesn't cover it.  I guess so. A person needs recognition. That's it, Dad, recognition, that's a word, Dad. What did I get? Bubkiss, that's what I got, money. Well, after a while, you begin to get sick. So, yesterday, we had a showdown. I wanted, you know what you said, full credit recognition. You know what he told me? No. That's just what he said. No. Plus, he said that if I gave him the gate, he'd see to it that I'd never have a song published in this year town. He said I was getting half the loot, so what was I squawking about? That when you threatened him? Yeah. But with fireworks, not firearms. Lawyers, not bullets. Well, that's my story, Shamis. Me, a wise guy, all of a sudden, I'm a little babe in a witz. And you told all this to Claire. Sure, sure, sure, I told her, and she went to bat for me. So what does he do? He fires her as a press agent. Then he makes a pass at her. He was getting sick and tired of her to pray.  My old Parker's working hard, and he's beginning to steam like a cauldron. He puts them over the grill, one after another, until they're sizzling. Rita, do pray. I did not kill him. Yes, I will admit to a bad temper. I will admit to jealousy. I will admit that he was finished with me, that I was clinging. But I did not kill him. George Black. Yeah, yeah, it was my gun. Sure, I was plenty sore at that rat. Maybe I would have come around to puttin' the boots to the guy, but I didn't come around to a lieutenant. Somebody did me the favor first. Nobody fiddles around with a chick that belongs to George Black. Claire Connolly. Yeah, I threatened him. I said the words, but I didn't mean them literally. That's what I said. I said, somebody oughta kill ya, and maybe I oughta do it myself. I was excited that they were just words, words. And Eddie Gale. Yeah, that, I threatened him, but it was fireworks I was gonna throw at him, not firearms. Lawyers, court proceedings, attachments, garnishes. You know what I mean. They're the works. Parker's barbecue breaks up, and everybody scatters, and when you finally wander into George's office, Rita Dupre is there, seated. Gorgeous in her lovely costume, along legs up on the desk. If you think you're going to talk to me, talk fast. I'm resting my legs. Yeah, so I see. Our last show is going on right away. Your last show has gone on. What kind of a crack is that? No crack, sister, except that you murdered a guy. Trying to trap me again or you will not succeed. You trapped yourself, sister. The lieutenant's been a little busy, but as soon as he simmers down, he'll hit him just like it hit me, and then baffle. You're in the can. And just what hit you? Four people had a finger on Johnny Silver. You, Eddie Gale, George Black, and Claire Connally.   Four suspects, but no fingerprints on the gun. And it landed downstairs practically simultaneously with the shooting. Nobody had time to wipe that gun. That's conclusive. Not one single fingerprint. You want to know why? I think I know why.  It's part of her costume. Okay. That's all for you, fella. George Black has slipped in, and Georgie is wearing her gun in his fist. A nasty-looking little automatic. All right, Shamus. You done your bit. You're through. Did you know she killed him, George? I don't know it yet. Did you, baby? Yes, yes, I killed him. Why? Because I loved him. Because he pushed me around. Because he laughed at me. Because when I pleaded with him, he spied at me. He spied at my face. Honey, honey, your French accent's slipping.  Baby, come here. Now, don't you worry about Sherlock here. Don't worry about nobody, see? I'll get you out of this. You and I, there's Cuba, South America. I got contacts, baby. The biggest and the best. But you got no brains, Georgie. Poor Georgie would make you an accessory. You two would be on the land for the rest of your lives. He's right, George. Rita, Rita, come here. Where are you going? I want to be honest for once in my life. I don't love you, George. I want you to know that. Look, baby, I know everything. You leave that to me, honey. As long as you're like me, just as long as you're like me a little bit, that's all that. Well, you're sweet, George, but I can't do this to you. If you're going to do it, this is the time. When they start making with the romance talk, they're off guard, so you jump. You... He missed you. And Rita's down on the floor.  And then it's over, and Parker's talking to you. That's funny how things work out. She gets it quick and sure instead of waiting for a trial and then getting it from the state anyway. George Black, we've been trying to pin a rap on him for a long time. Now he's pinned the rap on himself. Legal double-header. Funny how things work out. Yeah, Louie, it's funny. It's hilarious.  In Clark was starred as Peter Chambers. Crime and Peter Chambers transcribed was created and written by Henry Cain. Others in the cast were Bill Zuckert, heard as the tenant Parker, Rita Lynn as Claire and Donald Buca as Eddie. It was directed by Fred Way. And this is Fred Collins inviting you to tune in next week, same time, same station for Dane Clark in Crime and Peter Chambers. This is the United States Armed Forces Radio and Television Service.