Honey-Pot

Helene Barcynska

Description

A prolific and popular writer in the early twentieth century, Helene Barcynska was a mysterious figure who eschewed the limelight and created true-to-life, multi-dimensional heroines who sacrificed everything for their art. Maggy Delamere, the memorable protagonist of The Honey-Pot, is a struggling stage actress who wants to make a name for herself. Will she achieve the acclaim she craves and find love along the way?

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 avril 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775562023
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE HONEY-POT
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HELENE BARCYNSKA
 
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The Honey-Pot First published in 1916 ISBN 978-1-77556-202-3 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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The Honey-Pot I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII XXVIII XXIX XXX XXXI XXXII XXXIII XXXIV XXXV XXXVI XXXVII XXXVIII XXXIX XL XLI XLII XLIII XLIV XLV
The Honey-Pot
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I am a traveler in the great World-path; my garments are dirty and myfeet are bleeding with thorns. Where should I achieve flower-beauty,the unsullied loveliness of a moment's life? The gift that I proudlybring you is the heart of a woman. Here have all pains and joysgathered, the hopes and fears and shames of a daughter of the dust; herelove springs up struggling toward immortal life. Herein lies animperfection which yet is noble and grand. If the flower service isfinished, my master, accept this as your servant for the days to come .
—Rabindranath Tagore.
I
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In her petticoat, barefooted, because the morning was sultry, Miss MaggyDelamere plied a well-worn hare's foot to her cheeks with the sure touchof an artist. Professionally speaking and adding a final "e" to theterm, that is what she was—chorus-lady by courtesy, showgirl in thevernacular of the stage. On her small dressing-table were ranged anumber of pots and bottles, unguents and creams. A battered make-up boxcontaining remnants and ends of variously colored grease sticks flankeda looking-glass of inadequate size and small reflective power. A beamof sunlight striking across a corner of the table danced with minuteparticles of dust from a powder-puff.
The astonishing amount of vigor she put into the process of facialadornment, the prodigality with which she used pigments and washes, werecharacteristic of her temperament, all generosity and recklessness.Paint and powder were a habit with her, not an exigency. No girl ofnineteen could have needed them less. Her complexion, well-nighflawless, bloomed beneath the unnecessary veneer. Not even a crackedmirror could mitigate her good looks nor detract anything from hervivacious expression. It reflected a speaking face even when the lipswere still.
She was taking unusual pains with her appearance this morning. A cardstuck in the edge of the looking-glass provided the reason.
Memo. from A. Stannard, Dramatic Agent. PALL MALL THEATRE. Voice Trial, June 22nd, 10.45 a. m.
As everybody knows, the Pall Mall is the one London Theater of allothers to which ladies of the chorus most aspire. In Maggy's case thataspiration was intensified by real want of an engagement. She hadrecently succumbed to an attack of that childish complaint, measles, andwas more than usually hard-up. Her choice of garments was as limited asher means, yet twice she changed her mind about one or another of thembefore she was satisfied that she looked her best. Her efforts to thatend finished with the tacking of several sheets of tissue paper to theinside of her skirt to give it the rustle of a silk lining. Therustle—deceptive and effective as stage thunder—convincinglyaccomplished, she felt ready to present herself before any stage-managerin existence.
If her mood was serene vanity had no part in it. Unlike the averagechorus-girl she was quite free from conceit of any kind. She was toogood-looking to be unaware of it, but she did not trade on herappearance further than professional principles strictly allowed. Sheasked no more of it than that it should bring her in from thirtyshillings to two pounds a week for honest work behind the footlights.Commercialism with her ended there. She was all heart, but free fromillusions. Her mother had been on the stage before her. Always on thestage herself since childhood, familiarized with its careless,hand-to-mouth existence, its trials and its exuberances, she had becomeworldly-wise at ten and a woman at fifteen. But the life did notdemoralize her. The bad example of a mother's frailty and intemperancehad been her safeguard. She had never lost her head or her heart. Shedid not rate herself very high, but she rated men lower. Apart fromthis she had no hidebound views about life or morality. Since hermother's unlovely death she had lived alone and kept her end up somehow.She had often been penniless, gone hungry and cold; but so did many ofthe people among whom she moved. So long as she was not quite pennilessshe never worried. Cigale-like she lived in the present. If she eversuffered from fits of depression it was when she realized that she wasmore than usually shabby and needy, a condition, however, which shepreferred to put up with rather than descend to the acquisitive methodsof other girls.
Through the rattle of the traffic in the street below she heard a churchclock booming. Incidentally, she regarded churches less as places ofworship than timepieces of magnitude, convenient when you do not possessa watch. She counted the strokes, ten of them, darted to the glass fora last survey of herself, gave a touch to her hat, another to herwaistbelt, and pattered in her now stockinged feet to the top of thestairs.
"Shoes, please, Mrs. Bell!" she sang out. "You don't want me to be late,do you?"
"Coming this moment, Miss Delamere!" shouted an answering voice.
Mrs. Bell lumbered up the stairs with the shoes in her hand—high-heeledones of the sort that only last a fortnight before losing shape.
"I just stopped to give them an extry polish," she panted.
Maggy took them from her and hurriedly put them on. While she buttonedthem her landlady went on her knees and gave them a final rub up withher apron. She meant well.
"You'll have luck to-day," she said, regaining her feet and surveyingher lodger with approval. "I should look out for the butcher's black caton my way, if I was you. Back to dinner, dear?"
"I'll have a cut off whatever you've got, if I am," Maggy answered.
"Mine's hot Canterbury lamb and onion sauce."
"All right."
Maggy ran downstairs, slammed the hall door behind her and walked downthe street into the main thoroughfare, looking for the green motor-busthat would take her within a stone's throw of the Pall Mall Theater. Ina quarter of an hour she had reached that imposing edifice. Going in atthe stage door she descended a flight of stone steps, traversed a longpassage, and found herself upon the stage.
Gray daylight filtered down from the skylight above the flies, justenough for the business of the moment, no more. Across the unlitfootlights was a gloomy void, pierced by an occasional gleam from anopen door at the back of the pit or dress-circle, and relieved by thelighter hue of serried rows of dust-sheets hanging over the seats andbalcony edges.
Close to the footlights was a table occupied by the stage-manager andone of his satellites. In the corner to their left an upright piano wasset askew with the conductor of the orchestra seated at it. At the backof the stage, standing about in groups, some thirty girls and a few menwere waiting to have their voices tried.
They chattered noisily. Most of them seemed to know one another. Oneor two called out a greeting to Maggy. Some were volubly discussingtheir professional experiences, telling of late engagements andprospective ones; the run of this piece, the closing down of that;incidents on tour and in pantomime; suppers at restaurants and thedemerits of landladies. These topics ran into one another andoverlapped. Others, with giggles, imparted risky anecdotes inundertones. Most of them appeared to be taking the situation with thecalmness of habit. Nervousness showed in a few faces; anxiety in one ortwo. One pale-faced girl was in a condition of approaching maternity.In other surroundings she would have attracted attention, perhaps calledup pathetic surprise that in the circumstances she should be attemptingto obtain employment. But here very few were affected by pathos atsight of her, nor was she an object of much surprise.
After Maggy had exchanged a word or two with those whom she knew shetook very little notice of the people about her. She stood apart,humming a tune, and every now and again her feet broke into a subdueddance step. But this state of abstraction did not last long. That shewas a creature of impulse showed in an abrupt change from it to closeattention of what was going on around her. Her fine eyes went alertlyover those present and came to rest on a girl of about her own age whosequiet manner and dress of severe black singled her out from the rest.She was tall and slight, very much in the style of the women inShepperson's drawings. Her small features and graceful figure gave hera distinguished appearance. She looked what she was, a lady, and astranger to her surroundings. She held a roll of music and glancednervously about her until she became aware of Maggy's smiling regard.It seemed to encourage her. She returned the smile and advanced.
"At which end will they begin?" she asked nervously, making it clearthat she was an amateur.
"Anywhere," replied Maggy with friendly cheerfulness. "You're not apro.?"
"No."
"I thought not. I shouldn't let on if I were you. Managers fight shyof beginners. First thing they'll ask you at the table is whatexperience you've had. Haven't you been on the stage at all before?"
"No, I've never appeared in public. I'm new to it all."
"Been looking for a shop—an engagement—long?"
"For five weeks. Ever since I came to London."
The girl in black could n