Hunter College High School - Argus Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 31 text:

Hepburn, the stage-hand, crouched in the folds of the pro- tecting curtain. Twenty-five years had ravaged him, trodden upon him, grayed his hair, curved his back, quelled his spirit. But they had not deprived him of his ambitions. Still inconspicuous, un- noticed, a mere pusher of framework on wheels, Lewis yet offered his humble homage to the stage. The years between had served but to intensify his passion. He smiled a grotesque smile as he recognized his favorite skull on the stage. There it was, a little cracked after having been thrown about for many years. The large shining skull still grim- aced at Hepburn, the thoughtl, with its cracked, crooked yellow teeth. and its empty, hollow sockets where once two eyes had been. Lewis saw also a smaller, whiter skull, seemingly that of a child, which had become a prop with the first one. There were the others which he remembered, big ones, little ones, white, yellow, cracked, mouldy, gaping, ghastly skulls. He had something in common with them. He had watched over them through all of their performances in Hamlet, had polished them, stowed them away carefully, almost tenderly, after their scene. This night, as he watched the favorite scene of his favorite play, he saw his friend Graves, now promoted, enacting the role of a grave-digger. The last jest, now, and Hepburn heard the thundering acclamation out front, following the soft thud of the dropping curtain. For others! And what of himself? Nothing. Nothing. As he stood there, where he had stood for twenty-five years, a great sense of emptiness filled him, and he wondered at his friend's little hour and his own complete, crushing failure, At this moment the actors rushed backstage, hurrying past with their professional air, to the dressing-rooms where they must prepare for the next scene. Some of them, however, found time to fling cruelly sarcastic remarks at the stage hand. Well, if it isn't the great actor, himself! You could have done Hamlet better, couldn't you, Hepburn? They laughed in chorus. The object of their taunts stood dumbly staring at them, and refrained from speech. He was soon sent away, to assist in moving some large scenery, to be used as parts of the king's palace in the next scene. But he was dazed, utterly humiliated, and miserable. He hardly knew what he was about. He pushed against one of the marble pillars, Suddenly he pushed too hard, lost his balance, stumbled, twenty'-nine

Page 30 text:

'AYes, of course. But you can't begin at the top, said Henry. Take my advice. Get some work here and wait your chance. I can get you some work here with the props, lt isn't hard, and will keep you going. What do you say? For a moment he was silent. Then he faced the stage. The audience burst into raucous laughter at some grim jest of the clowns. Then. Oh, l'll do it! ln this manner Lewis Hepburn became a stage-hand. His work was dull, monotonous, painful, so different from the ache for real expression that gnawed within him. But, it permitted him to hang about the wings, to watch the acting on the stage. How he envied the players! How he criticized them and pictured how he would do this or that. He would stand, in his overalls, his eyes em- bittered, seeing them in their costumes and grease-paint. He would envy them that exciting pause just before the rise of the cur- tain-that big moment. And then, the curtain, the speeches, the applause-the play! Hepburn liked all of Shakespeare, but most of all he loved Hamlet. When it was billed, then he could be found at the wings, watching. He pictured himself as Hamlet. He knew the lines, everyone of them, and practised them assiduously. When Hamlet flung his passionate accusations at his mother, Hepburn reached his highest pitch of excitement. He lived through their emotions as deeply as did the actors themselves. And he remained a stage- hand, dutifully and monotonously moving the scenery for those who strutted before it. II THE EMPIRE THEATRE Clown fSingsJ: 'AA pick-axe and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding sheet: O, a pit of clay for to be made, For such a guest is meet. fThrows up another skulll Hamlet: There's anotherg why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits, now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! twenty-eight

Page 32 text:

fell and dragged the heavy marble pillar down upon him. When his companions extricated him from the crumbled ruins of the pillar, they found him all but a ruin himself. His body was horribly mangled. Henry lifted him and succeeded in carrying him off-stage. Many minutes later he was able to ask in a feeble voice that he be taken home. Graves hastened to do so and, clad as he was in grease-paint and clown's mantle, called for the aid of another actor, They bore Hepburn outside, where a taxi had been sum- moned. Then to Lewis' boarding house, and up the stairs, to his little room. Graves deposited Hepburn upon the bed and sent his companion for a doctor. Meanwhile, he attempted to ease his friend by sitting at his bedside and patting his hand. Suddenly the sunken eyes opened and the shrivelled lips began to move. Hepburn was trying to talk. He spoke falteringly, gasping and choking for air. 'Al am dying, Henry- Nonsensel Don't say things like that! interrupted his friend in distress. You'll get over this. You must! Hepburn seemed to gather the last shreds of his strength. A'Why so? What have l got to live for? Who will grieve? What work will be undone? He began to tremble and shake and mumble under the covers. Henry's face, as he sat near his friend, wrinkled with lines of sympathy through its mask of rough grease and paint. As he stared at Lewis, he began to realize more completely the pathos of that futile life. Now Hepburn's head attracted his attention. How old and withered it looked in the flickering candle-light that danced and cast dancing shadows upon the dusty walls. The few grey hairs served poorly indeed to hide the great bony skull underneath. The eyes were deeply sunken. The whitish lips parted to expose yellow teeth in the involuntary grin of a death's head! Now the dying man spoke again, intent upon some last expression of desire before all desire and life should fade from him. Henry, listen to me. Do what you will with my small properties. They are worthless. But- Here his eyes gleamed with excitement- Take this- His finger pointed, like a lean, emaciated claw, toward his own damp skull- Take this-make it my part-fin-Hamlet! thirty