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.“But Orleans was not even my idea! The commander, my father, thecommander, my father… oh, my God, my dear God, he made her do it, hetold me—they all promised—”She stumbled, nearly falling to her knees.The historian leapedforward and caught her.I don’t think any of us could have borne it if that pitiful, demented figure had knelt and begun to pray.The next moment, however, though visibly fighting to control herself,she knew where—and who—she was.“Doctor, don’t, I’m all right now.It’s not—I’m all right.Mr.Whitten, I’m sorry, let me start the scene over!”“No, don’t start the scene over.Tell me what you were going to say.Where is Shaw wrong? What happened? Try to feel it again.”Ann’s eyes held Whitten’s.They were beyond all of us, alreadynegotiating with every inflection of every word.“I don’t have to feel it again.I remember what happened.That waveof… I won’t do that again.It was just when it all came rushing back.But now I remember it, I have it, I can control it.It didn’t happen like Shaw’s play.She—I—was used.She did hear voices, she was mad, but the whole ideato use her to persuade the Dauphin to fight against the English didn’t come from the voices.The priests insisted on what they said the voices meant, and the commander made her a sort of mascot to get the soldiers to kill… I was used.A victim.” A complicated expression passed over her face, perhaps the most extraordinary expression I have ever seen on a face soyoung: regret and shame and loss and an angry, wondering despair forevents long beyond the possibility of change.Then the expressionvanished, and she was wholly a young woman coolly engaged in thebargaining of history.“I know it all, Mr.Whitten—all that really happened.And it happened to me.The real Joan of Arc.”“Cosgriff,” Whitten said, and I saw Kellig start.Lawrence Cosgriff hadwon the Pulitzer Prize for drama the last two years in a row.He wrotepowerful, despairing plays about the loss of individual morality in aninstitutionalized world.“My dear Gregory,” Kellig said, “one does not simply commissionLawrence Cosgriff to write one a play.He’s not some hack you can—”Whitten looked at him, and he was quiet.I understood why; Whittenwas on fire, as exalted with his daring idea as the original Joan must have been with hers.But no, of course, she hadn’t been exalted, that was the whole point.She had been a dupe, not a heroine.Young Miss Friedland,fighting for her name in lights, most certainly considered Joan the Heroine to be an expendable casualty.One of the expendable casualties.I stoodup and began to make my way to the stage.“I’m the real thing,” Ann said.“The real thing.I’ll play Joan, of course.”“Of course,” Kellig drawled.He was already looking at her with dislike, and I could see what their rehearsals would be: the chance upstart and the bit player who had paid largely fruitless dues for twenty years.Thecommander and the Dauphin would still be the male leads; Kellig’s partcould only grow smaller under Ann’s real thing.“I’ll play Joan,” she said again, a little more loudly.Whitten, flushed with his vision, stopped his ecstatic pacing andscowled.“Of course you must play Joan!”“Oh,” Ann said, “I was afraid—”“Afraid? What is this? You are Joan.”“Yes,” she said slowly, “yes, I am.” She frowned, sincerely, and thena second later replaced the frown with a smile all calculation and relief.“Yes, of course I am!”“Then I’ll absolutely reach Cosgriff’s agent today.He’ll jump at it.You will need to work with him, of course.We can open in six months, with any luck.You do live in town? Cosgriff can tape you.No, someone else can do that before he even—Austin!”“You’re forgetting something, aren’t you, Gregory, in this sudden greatvision? You have a contract to do Shaw.”“Of course I’m not forgetting the contract.But you absolutely mustwant to continue, for this new play… Cosgriff…” He stopped, and I knewthe jumble of things that must be in his mind: deadlines, backing (Friedland Computers!), contracts, schedules, the percentage of my commitment,and, belatedly, Barbara.She still sat on the bench at stage left, half in shadow.Her back wasvery straight, her chin high, but in the subdued light her face with its faint smile looked older, not haggard but set, inelastic.I walked over to her and turned to face Whitten.“I will not back this new play, even if you do get Cosgriff to write it.Which I rather doubt.Shaw’s drama is an artistic masterpiece.What youare planning is a trendy exploitation of some flashy technology.Lookelsewhere for your money.”Silence.Whitten began to turn red, Kellig snickered—at whom wasnot clear.In the silence the historian, Dr.Metz, began timidly, “I’m sure Miss Friedland’s information would be welcomed warmly by any academic—”The girl cried loudly, “But I’m the real thing!” and she started to sob.Barbara had risen to take my arm.Now she dropped it and walkedover to Ann.Her voice was steady.“I know you are.And I wish you all luck as an actress.It’s a brilliant opportunity, and I’m sure you’ll do splendidly with it.”They faced each other, the sniveling girl who had at least the grace tolook embarrassed and the smiling, humiliated woman.It was a publicperformance, of course, an illusion that all Barbara felt was a selfless, graceful warmth, but it was also more than that.It was as gallant an act of style as I have ever seen.Ann muttered “Thank you” and flushed a mottled maroon.Barbaratook my arm, and we walked down the side aisle and out of the theater.She walked carefully, choosing her steps, her head high and lips together and solemn, like a woman on her way to a public burning.I wish I could say that my quixotic gesture had an immediate anddisastrous effect on Whitten’s plans, that he came to his artisticsenses—and went back to Shaw’s Saint Joan.But of course he did no suchthing.Other financial backing than mine proved to be readily available.Contracts were rewritten, agents placated, lawsuits avoided.Cosgriff did indeed consent to write the script, and Variety became distressingly eager to report any tidbit connected with what was being billed as JOAN OF ARC: WITH THE ORIGINAL CAST! It was a dull theater season in New York.Nothing currently running gripped the public imagination like thisas-yet-unwritten play.Whitten, adroitly fanning the flames, gave out very few factual details.Barbara remained silent on the whole subject.Business was keepingme away from New York a great deal.Gorer-Redding Solar was installing a new plant in Bogotá, and I would spend whole weeks trying to untangle the lush foliage of bribes, kickbacks, nepotism, pride, religion, and mañana that is business in South America.But whenever I was in New York, I spent time with Barbara.She would not discuss Whitten’s play, warning me away from the subject with the tactful withdrawal of an estate owner discouragingtrespassing without hurting local feelings.I admired her tact and her refusal to whine, but at the same time I felt vaguely impatient.She was keeping meat arm’s length.She was doing it beautifully, but arm’s length was not where I wanted to be.I do not assume that intimacy must be based on a mutual display ofsores.I applaud the public illusion of control and well-being as a civilized achievement [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]