I tell Dad now, he’ll forbid my accepting the part at all. If I don’t tell him and accept it without his knowledge, he’ll find out eventually from some other source, and then there’ll be one devil of a row. Either way, it looks as though I’m headed for trouble.”
“If I were in your place, Mark,” I told him, having already given the matter some thought before his arrival, “I’d tell him at once, and get it over with. If you don’t, he’ll blame you later not only for having done something which you knew would be contrary to his wishes, but for having been secretive about it as well. Besides, there’s always the chance that you may be able to overcome his opposition.”
“Do you honestly believe that last part?” he asked cynically.
I had no answer ready for him, knowing that actually, I did not.
“Last night when the explosion occurred in the laboratory and I was afraid at first that Dad might have been injured or even killed,” he went on after a little pause, “I felt as though I’d been a selfish heel even to consider taking part in the play when I knew what his feelings would be on the subject. That’s why I couldn’t discuss it with you afterwards; I’d have felt like a traitor to him if I had. But I realized this morning that that was only the emotionalism of the moment. I know now I’ve got to be in that play, regardless of everything. You see, Professor Barto told us a talent scout friend of his is coming down from New York to see it; and if he likes any of us, there may be just a chance . . .”
I understood the thought which he had left unspoken. “The theater is really in your blood, isn’t it, Mark?” I asked.
He gave a brief, shaky laugh, the kind a man gives when he is recalling some unpleasant experience. “It’s odd you should use that particular expression, Professor Laing,” he remarked. “I said practically the same thing to Dad one day last fall when I wanted to enroll for Professor Barto’s course in dramatic interpretation. I’m not actually in any of his classes, you know.
“He gave me a look I won’t forget in a hurry—Dad, I mean—then he said that if he thought that was the case, he’d make me undergo one of those series of operations where they drain off every drop of blood in a man’s body and exchange it for new. I realized he didn’t mean that literally, of course; but I knew that what he did mean was that he’d resort to any measures, no matter how hard they were on either or both of us, to destroy my interest in the stage. In fact—” his voice dropped to an unsteady whisper “—I got the impression that before he’d permit me to become an actor, he’d rather see me dead.”
I tried to convince him that he’d been letting his imagination run away with him, and that his father could have had no such thought in mind, but I wasn’t too sure that I succeeded. He left then, promising to think over the advice I had given him; but I noticed that he made no promise to follow it.
The thought of him and his problem remained with me for a long time after he had gone. Although I realized that I had no right to interfere between father and son in a matter which was obviously none of my affair and which in addition possessed all the characteristics of potential dynamite, the fact that the boy had turned to me for help had created in me a feeling of responsibility for him which I found it impossible to shake off. Yet I knew it would be worse than useless to approach Eric Fordyce on the subject unless I was armed with some understanding of what lay behind his violent opposition to Mark’s pursuing a theatrical career.
The thought flashed across my mind that perhaps, like so many parents who were unsympathetic toward their children’s aspirations to the theater, he might feel that his son was merely stage-struck, and possessed of no genuine talent, and would therefore be wasting his time. Whether this was true or not, I didn’t know, but I decided it would be advisable to find out before aligning myself too definitely on Mark’s side. And the person best in a position to give me such information ought to be the man who was directing the play, Professor Antonio Barto.
Accordingly I cut my eleven o’clock lecture class—to the gratification, I had no doubt, of some hundred and fifty students in analytical psychology—and, having once heard Barto say that he had a free period at that time, went up to his office on the second floor of College Hall on the chance of finding him there.
My knock at his door was answered by his invitation to enter—given after an almost imperceptible hesitancy—and I pushed the door open. But before I had taken more than a step across the threshold I stopped, having discovered not only that he already had a visitor, but, from the breath of exotic perfume that seemed fairly to permeate the room, that his visitor was of the female gender.
“Sorry, Barto,” I apologized, preparing to withdraw again. “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone. I’ll come around some other time.”
“How did you—” he began, then checked himself, but his meaning was clear to me. He was wondering how I had known he had a visitor, forgetting, as do so many sighted people, that we who are blind have become accustomed to relying upon our other sensory perceptive faculties to tell us what the average man learns through his eyes. “Perhaps we can have lunch together, Professor Laing,” he suggested, affably enough, but with, I felt, a poorly concealed anxiety to be rid of me. “I will call for you at your office at—shall we say one o’clock?”
I agreed to this arrangement and withdrew, wondering a little just who his visitor had been. I was almost certain she was not one of his students there to see him upon some school matter, not only because that cloying perfume hadn’t been of the kind generally affected by our co-eds, but because, had she been, there would have been no reason for him to have become in any way discomfited by my unexpected intrusion. Neither, apparently, was she a personal friend to any appreciable degree, or he would have been having luncheon with her instead of being at liberty to make that arrangement with me. However, since the nature of Barto’s feminine callers appeared to be no concern of mine, I dismissed the little episode from my mind and returned to my own office to wait for him.
Over luncheon at one of the campus “hash houses” an hour or so later, I put to him my question regarding Mark Fordyce, and was surprised by the warmth of his response.
“Young Marco!” he exclaimed, referring to the boy affectionately by the Spanish form of his name. “You ask me whether he possesses any genuine talent for acting? Genius would be a better and not inappropriate word in his case. He has the true fire of the real artist! Booth, Mansfield, Barrymore—he is of their class, or will be when he has properly matured. Even now, with the little training I have been privileged to give him in odd moments . . .” His words trailed away in an enthusiasm which was plainly beyond his powers of expression.
“You have been giving him private coaching, then?” I asked.
I sensed his Latin shrug, even though I was unable to see it.
“Hardly anything so formal,” he replied. “We have spent a few evenings together in my rooms discussing theater, and I have observed him at the university dramatic club, of which I am faculty advisor. But tell me, my friend.” His voice dropped to a more confidential level. “Although Marco has never said so to me in words, he has given me by his actions reason to believe that he receives little sympathy at home in his desire to become an actor. Is this the case?”
“I believe his father doesn’t entirely approve of a theatrical career for him,” I replied cautiously, and hoped Heaven would forgive me for this masterpiece of understatement.
“Then this disapproval must be either overcome or defied,” Barto declared with a determination which implied that he would brook no interference. “Acting is Marco’s natural heritage. To deny it to him would be as great a sin as to deny to the birds of the air their right to sing. And I,
