Friday
Dear Pat,
Well, the great week is almost over. I'm sorry I haven't written more, but I've been so blasted busy working on "Crimes" that I haven't even had time to do my homework, let alone indulge in letter writing. And I've been having the most wonderful time, as you can imagine. Pat and I got 12:00 permissions for this week in order to work, and ever since last Monday night we've been working furiously at Millbank, building and painting sets. I'm amazed at how much I do know about sets, and I'm learning more every day. You should see me ply my saw, bang my hammer, and, above all, paint! Frank has decided that he likes my style of painting, so guess who painted every single hunk of scenery (5 scenes, at least 4 pieces for each). You guessed it. Me, and do I love it! They're all little hunks of Upson board - trees, walls, houses etc - a huge backdrop, and a bench, my bench, which Pat and I built & painted. Last night was opening night, and where was I? down in the cellar painting flats, two of which, even when I finally finished them, weren't used at all that evening. You should see my poor hands. We use powdered paints, and I've been mixing paint & glue by hand. The paint has become ground into my hands and fingernails and I can't seem to get them clean. Frank is pleased with my work - he took down my name and home address in case he should hear of any opportunities for an aspiring young scene-painter - namely, me. He is the oddest, loudest, Brooklynest little faun you ever saw. He makes corny jokes, and if he thinks a particular bon mot is outstanding, he repeats it, chuckling like a little fiend, just to be sure you don't miss the point. He can never remember my name, or at least, he never used to be able to. He used to call me "Chick" or "Michelangelo", Michael for short, but finally he has discovered that I have a name. He calls Pat "Patty", which drives her out of her feeble wits. [in pencil, and different handwriting: "It's a lie - tain't feeble witted - me"] That was added by Pat herself. Or should I say, "Patty"? [in pencil, and different handwriting: "Grr - them's fightin' woids"] Pat works lights up in the tiny crow's nest, and gets yelled at constantly.
Witch should be here to do a psychoanalyzing job on Dolph. (the director, Mr. Sweet) We can't figure him out. He is the sexiest looking [in pencil, in Pat's handwriting: "that is an understatement, madamoisellie"] slob you ever saw. He treats all females with a cold disdain that drives most of them crazy. One of his friends tells me that he does that to keep them at bay, but I maintain that there's such a thing as common civility, and Hans just laughs at my (and I quote) "naiéveté." (Hans is British, studies International Law at post-grad. school, massages very well, and is insane but fun) Anyway, Dolph is an enigma. He hardly speaks to us at all, except every now and then in an unguarded moment. He told Frank that he thought my sets were "wonderful", but has not even thanks me for giving my time to the damned Workshop. I can see that if I intend to major in Drama something drastic will have to be done. I've got to break down the wall that surrounds the fathead. We still can't figure out if he's an above-average guy with great capabilities but too introverted to show them, or an average man trying to do the impossible to the best of his ability. There's no doubt but that he and Frank both are shooting very high - he in his productions, Frank in his designs which are so lovely & ambitious, but just fall a little short of what he wants them to be. They stub their toes on the stars, poor fools, and when Dolph is being particularly melancholy - Dane-ish I try to remember all I've concluded and make allowances. After all, he's come close to the impossible, doing Strindberg in two weeks, and doing it damned well. He's patient as all get out with his cast, and both he and they work like the proverbial slave. The opening night performance was awful. Dolph was morose and disappointed, the cast fumed at the technical delays, the lights wouldn't work, the house was small, nothing went right. They rehearsed for four hours before last night's performance, and the performance showed it. I helped shift. Pat (another Pat) had finally made out a shift schedule, and everything went like clockwork. The actors were sparked, the lights were fine, the house was wonderful. Richard Rodgers was there, Norris Houghton came backstage, I don't know who else. You know me, how I love to tell someone if I'm terribly pleased and happy for them about their success, but damn Dolph anyway! I couldn't break the shell, so I didn't say anything. And to top it off, he nearly broke my toe shoving a heavy hunk of set onstage. Pat and I sat up till 2:00 discussing the play, the people, everything. Oh, Pat, I do love it so, but that man is going to ruin everything if I can't do something about him! And what can I do?!!
I've met some very nice guys. Several of them in the cast came down to talk to me while I worked - Karl, Adolfe, the Abbé (really Leon, but he plays the Abbé in the play) and, of course, Hans, but my coeur reste unmoved. The lead, Peter Gray, a professional, is very good but he is one of the high and the mighty, and won't condescend to consort with the stage crew. Evans, our leading lady ( a word which is open to question) is the same way, sweet when she wants something, nose in the air when she's self-sufficient. She is beautiful, radiates sex, tries to seduce Dolf and Pete, but Dolf is indifferent and Pete - I don't know. Possibly a "Liliom" situation. It's only too easy to fall into.
Only 2 more nights of play. At last I'll be able to get my work done. I've only cut 2 classes all week, though I've been so tired that the bags under my eyes reach to my knees. The glassy-eyed stare is the mark of the theatrically inclined hereabouts. Nevertheless I managed to get an A- in my French & Geology mid-terms, also in my Eng. paper, though I've been staggering around, a perfect example of death warmed up.
How's Peer Gynt coming? How's Vierick? I got my birthday present from Uncle H. today, "The Love Letters of Phyllis McGinley." If you've never read her poetry, you have a delight in store for you. Also, a can of pretzels guess who from.
I'll find out about trains soon as possible. There's one that leaves at 6:55, according to Mother, and I'll find out more about the rest.
Mother is having fits about Margaretta's direction of "Cherry Orchard," but she's having fun. Cole's in it, too, or did I tell you? Mother talks as much about Dot in her letters as I do. She stops in at the Art Center often, apparently.
Didn't have a chance to write to les petits fils this week, but will as soon as possible. Dear little monsters! I'll be so happy to see them again!
Love,
Janie(I wrote all this during Eng. and Fr. class, in case you're wondering!)