Brentwood College School - Brentonian Yearbook (Mill Bay, British Columbia Canada)

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Brentwood College Magazine the fifty-ninth time. At 10:15 she yawned behind her hand as she helped to adjust the backdrop in its ninety-ninth position.. (The figures, of course, are merely approximate.) Once a bell shrilled somewhere from the depths of the building, bringing a wild gleam of hope to the S.P. ' s eye, but the ad justment of the backdrop and the smoothing of the cheese-cloth continued as before. A dull despair settled on her spirit — Time had mercifully ceased to exist; nothing mattered any more . . . Holy jumped up jiminy! ejaculated the S.M. suddenly, with a vigour which roused the Scene-Painter from her coma with a start, it ' s time for my egg-nogg. And mine! echoed the H.M. The sound of their rapidly departing footsteps was drowned by the tramp- ing of many feet, as though an invading army were pouring into the gym. As indeed it was, in a sense, for the next quarter hour was filled with curt commands and the rhythmic sounds of drilling. At length, however, drill, like everything else, came to an end, and an almost unearthly silence reigned in its stead. A few moments quiet was sufficient to demonstrate the extraordinary resilience of the human spirit. After all, reflected the S.P., they have left me almost two hours, and a lot can happen in that time. The sinister truth of this platitude was to be impressed upon her with quite unnecessary force, but fortunately she was unaware of what fate had in store. With great haste and inaccuracy she mixed the glue size with the once-hot water and was soon immersed quite literally in an occupation reminiscent of child- hood ' s mud-pie days — the mixing of scene-paint. Prussian blue, scarlet and violet were soon ready to splash on the canvas — to say nothing of the floor, her overalls, face and hands — in her usual dashing and inimitable manner. Before finally putting brush to canvas she paused to consult her watch — a fatal mistake! She noted that it was 10:50, just as a step was heard in the passage outside, and the handle of the glass door was rattled violently. A wild desire to commit hari-kari seized the S.P., who luckily recalled in time that we were at war with Japan and this would be an unpatriotic act. Someone entered. He looked startled on seeing the paint-bespattered apparition before him, but even this did not daunt his brave spirit. Like stout Cortez, he looked silently upon the scene, but the Scene-Painter felt uneasily that somehow he was not quite so impressed by what he saw. She was far to self-conscious of her tech- nique, which was apt to be — -well, shall we say, unusual — to go on with her work while anyone was looking on. At last her visitor spoke. What is it meant to be? he asked kindly. Oh!-er-a-a temple scene, replied the S.P., hanging her head shame-facedly. [Page Twenty]

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Brentwood College Magazine asms HE SCENE-PAINTER staggered into the gymnasium, one hand clutching a kettle of hot water, and the other balancing three or four telescoped tins filled with paint brushes, and pressing against her sides with both arms a collection of rags and papers. She felt, and probably looked like, a human salvage truck; but, although her appearance didn ' t suggest it, her entry was in the nature of a triumph. For she had arranged the affairs of her home in such a fashion that she had a whole free morning in which to complete the painting of the scenery for the school concert, a feat of which she felt justly proud, involving as it did a great deal of planning and thought. For this was near Christmas-time and it was no easy matter to seize Time by his forelock, so swifty he went hurrying by, so much there was to do . . . The accumu- lation of tins, rags, paint and newspapers in sufficient quantities for her task had also involved hours of toil and trouble, a fact to be appreciated readily perhaps only by salvagers. The Temple scene, which had been sketched in the evening before in a dim light amid a seething crowd of boys engaged in such noisy and divergent occu- pations as the hammering in and the wrenching out of nails, the playing of badminton, the putting together and tearing apart of scenery, and so on, was ready for painting and with hard work and good luck could be almost finished this morning. It was 9:30 and she had three and a half precious hours before her. Visions of temple arches, noble pillars and marble masonry flashed before her inward eye as the creative instinct welled up within her, and her spirits rose happily at the thought of all she would do. But the sight that met her eyes as she entered the door caused both her spirits and her jaw to fall with a click, though luckily she managed to keep better control of her tins and brushes. Up on the stage the stage manager was conferring with the Headmaster. To the uninitiated there would be nothing in this sight to cause such distressing symp- toms, for both of these men were, even to their pupils, comparatively harmless looking individuals, as individuals go. But therein lay the trouble — she knew they wouldn ' t. With an air of infinite resignation she dropped her collection of tins and k ettles on the floor with a clatter. We are arranging the scenery, explained the Headmaster, to see how it looks best. The Scene-Painter nodded gloomily with absolute comprehension as the stage manager launched into a flow of descriptive imagery which increased into a torrent as it surged forth from his fertile brain. At 10:00 o ' clock she glanced furtively at her watch as she smoothed the folds of the cheese-cloth curtains for [ Page Nineteen ]

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Brentwood College Magazine Oh, I see. A whole volume of criticism was implied in this short observa- tion. The Scene-Painter wilted and glanced nervously at her watch; it was 11:00 o ' clock. She sighed. Her visitor departed as abruptly as he had come and she was alone again. But somehow all the joy had gone out of her occu- pation; she felt as limp as a wrung-out dish towel. The canvas with its embryo temple, which had seemed to have such possibilities when she started, seemed now as vast and empty as the Pacific on which her visitor — or was it Cortez — had gazed with such eloquent and crushing silence. However, it was 11:00 o ' clock. . . . With brave determination she roused herself from her depression, reminding herself that there was work to be done and there were almost two hours in which to do it and a great deal can be done in two hours. Events and visitors in rapid succession confirmed her convic- tion during the next hour. One visitor thought that the pillars ought to be moved to the opposite side of the canvas. Another reminisced fondly and at great length about his own excursions into scene-painting long, long ago. The aesthetic sense of a third was offended by the colour of the sky. Another felt sure that there must be some way of producing the effect of marble by more efficient means. Yet another was enthusiastic in his compliments of her realistic portrayal of a railway station. At long last the hour passed and all was quiet once more, uncannily quiet. Her senses had become mercifully numbed. Almost furtively she placed the ladder against the canvas and, scarcely daring to breathe, mounted it quickly and softly and lifted her brush to start the sky. Away down in the silence of the gym a door creaked softly, ominously. It ' s only the wind! she cried desperately to herself. Surely, surely it can only be the wind! But deep in her heart she knew it was not. Automatically she dropped her brushes into the paint and slowly descended the ladder, mournfully dashing the paint from her eyes. Her visitor loomed large in the doorway, a genial smile on his ruddy countenance. Have you a moment to spare? he boomed cheerfully. I want to ask your advice about this tree-cutting job we ' re doing in the garden. Everyone else seems to be busy. The Scene-Painter controlled a hysterical desire to laugh and to laugh and laugh. Instead she followed him obediently into the garden. Later . . . she returned and looked at her watch. It was ten minutes to one. . . . [Page Twenty-one]