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

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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

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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

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Henry sprang from his seat in horror. The man was mad! He bent in anguish over his dying friend to question him, wrest that last meaning from him-but it was too late. Hepburn was dead. That last wish had wrung all life from him. Graves sank back into his seat. There, still before him, the bony finger still pointed, hang- ing out of the bed like a last, unshakable determination that would not die. It demanded. It insisted. Graves seized it and stowed it beneath the cover, murmuring- Yes, Lewis, yes-your part in Hamlet-- III THE EMPIRE THEATRE Clown fSingsj: But age, with his stealing steps, Hath claw'd me in his clutch, And hath shipped me intil the land, As if I had never been such. fThrows up a skull.l Hamlet: 'AThat skull had a tongue in it, and could sing onceg how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw- bone. lt might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'erreaches. The curtain rose on the churchyard scene. Hepburn's last wish had been obeyed. Graves, the clown, stood mutely beside his fellow jesters, ruefully anticipating the moment when after a final cynical epigram he must lift his spade and toss the withered skull of his friend across the stage. The moment came at last. He cast the shrivelled object into the air, and shrank in horror as he beheld it crash to the floor in flaky fragments. He bent dismayed over the pieces. The curtain fell. A few minutes later, a man sat lost in a labyrinth of thought. He saw Hepburn again, as he had been accustomed to stand, crouching in the wings, watching, wanting, a chance-Life had not given it to him. Death had been a relief from hoping, and a grim. opportunity-to play in Hamlet-But even that-even that. 'iprovidentialln-He buried his face in his hands - Alas, poor Yorickf' he muttered, l knew him. thirty-one -i