Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jun 20, 2010 19:20:09 GMT -5
Chapter Four
[/b][/i]Maxwell[/i] Squalor’s study was located at the west end of the mansion, far from vocal nuisances and those which would interfere with one’s concentration. Jerome was unable to count the times his father had retreated to his study when Jerome and Andrew were younger. Maxwell virtually wanted nothing to do with either of the children until Jerome was nearly five and Andrew three. Never had Maxwell expressed any interest in watching them if Cora received a social invitation from one of her friends; or, God forbid, gotten down on the floor to play with them. Invariably he’d left all the work to his wife who, due to her extreme passiveness, had never voiced a single word of complaint. The only time she’d come close was in her request for a nanny to help her with the boys. Maxwell had scoffed at this suggestion the same way he’d scoffed at the one she’d made to send Jerome to the V.F.D. Training School. “‘Nannies are a waste of funds,’” Maxwell said, “‘which, if you’ll recall, I work very hard to earn. Besides, the boys will only end up more attached to a woman who is not their mother than to you. Is that what you want?’”
It had taken Cora almost no time at all to come to the conclusion that Maxwell’s theory was most likely correct. His wandering interest in other women was something that was just barely within his wife’s power to accept. She hated to imagine how she’d feel if one or both of her sons deserted her by attaching themselves to another woman they’d prefer to have as their mother.
Of course, no such thing had ever crossed either of the boys’ minds, but that hadn’t stopped their mother from considering the possibility.
The previous week, Cora had purchased a large blackboard similar to the ones in Jerome’s classrooms at school. She had set up the blackboard in the study, always making sure to store it in one of the spare rooms following each of her son’s lessons. Maxwell was still adamant that Jerome’s poor academic skills would make him ineligible for the Training School. But Cora—whose faith in her son overrode such negatives—refused to give up until he took the test and the grades were announced.
In addition to the blackboard, Cora had purchased a student-sized desk and chair. The only furniture that required relocating was the leather armchair, which stood before a row of full-scale windows. Jerome had helped his mother move it out of the study and store it temporarily inside the spare room where the blackboard was kept. Because he had a tendency to become easily distracted, Cora ordered him to turn the table and chair so that they completely faced away from the windows. She was praying for her son’s success and was taking every single precaution to ensure he captured it.
Though he always did his best to follow the instructions of his teachers, there was no denying that Jerome’s mind wandered. Not because he didn’t care about receiving an education, but because he was so disinterested about things he didn’t comprehend. Things like Shakespeare, which Mr. Funcoot had been going on about for the last twenty minutes. Jerome had no idea who Elizabeth was or what she was doing in England, but he had even less of an understanding when it came to the Shakespearean language. He knew the characters were speaking English because he recognized all of the words. It was the actual sentences that were causing him the most trouble. For they sounded as if they’d been poured from a can and into a pot where they’d all gotten jumbled together until they were nothing more than a pile of nonsense.
“A thorough understanding of Shakespearean speech is a necessity for any gifted actor,” Mr. Funcoot was saying from his place behind Maxwell Squalor’s large wooden desk. “I’d be very interested to hear which of his works you enjoy most and those you’re familiar with.”
Although Mr. Funcoot had appeared menacing at first glance, Jerome couldn’t help but wonder if he’d put the cart before the horse. They were about twenty minutes into their lesson, and Mr. Funcoot had yet to raise his voice. Jerome wondered briefly if it had to do with Mr. Funcoot having come recommended by the Snickets and the fear of not wanting anything unpleasant to get back to them. Whatever it was, Jerome was thankful, and in turn was able to relax and for the first time speak to a stranger without the slightest stutter in his voice.
“Well, we recently finished up Julius Caesar in school,” he said. “I found it quite dull, if I’m honest, probably because I didn’t understand most of it.” He blushed and smiled awkwardly, making sure to keep his mouth closed for fear of revealing his crooked teeth.
“I agree that the language of Shakespeare takes some getting used to,” Mr. Funcoot concurred. “It often helps to think of it as a secondary language. What’s your secondary language?”
Jerome shook his head. “I don’t have one. English is the only language I know.”
“They don’t offer any language classes at your school?”
“They do. It’s just my parents and guidance counselor thought that learning another language would be too difficult for me, and so I’m exempt.”
Mr. Funcoot nodded thoughtfully. “If I’m not mistaken, the V.F.D. Training School requires you to learn Latin. Has your mother spoken to the headmaster about that?”
Jerome had no idea what his mother had been doing to prepare him for the academy, other than hiring tutors. “I’m not sure.”
“I’ll speak to her about it after our lesson. If it turns out that it’s necessary for you to learn Latin, then I’ll volunteer to tutor you in addition to your theatrical studies.” Mr. Funcoot glanced at the miniature grandfather clock displayed on Maxwell Squalor’s desk. “Which we should be getting back to, before our time is up. Now, where were we?”
“You were asking me which of Shakespeare’s plays I’ve read.”
“Ah, yes. Which others are you familiar with, besides Julius Caesar?”
“Well, we read Romeo and Juliet last year.”
Mr. Funcoot grinned, as if he’d just been paid a particularly flattering compliment. “Ah—one of the Master of Tragedy’s finest accomplishments. What did you think of it?”
“I liked it,” Jerome said. “I understood it better than Julius Caesar. But that’s probably because Romeo and Juliet is one of those stories everybody knows, whether they’ve read it or not. After we were finished, my English teacher had us dress up as some of the characters and perform various scenes.”
“How exciting! Who did you play?”
“I chose not to participate.”
“Oh?” Mr. Funcoot looked disappointed. “May I ask why not?”
Jerome lowered his head, disappointed in himself for disappointing his tutor. “I was too shy—it’s impossible for me to deliver oral reports to my class. Let alone memorize lines and recite them in front of a group of people.” He shuddered and looked up. “The very thought has me absolutely terrified.”
“Well, then. We’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we?”
“What do you mean?”
“You mentioned before that you’re familiar with Romeo and Juliet,” said Mr. Funcoot, “so we’ll start with that one. Open your book to page one-forty-two, please.” Jerome didn’t question his tutor, and did as he was told. “Since the point of this exercise is to focus on your acting, we’ll skip the prologue and go straight to the dialogue. Start from ‘Gregory, o’ my word.’”
Jerome nodded and began to read. It wrecked his nerves to speak to strangers, but it destroyed those nerves when he was expected to recite something aloud. Because reading made it more difficult for him to pause, he had less control over his stuttering. This, in turn, made him anxious, and when he became anxious, he did what a variety of child psychologists had all described to his mother as ‘losing his voice’. It was something that Maxwell Squalor had never understood, and something that occurred before his son was even halfway through his sentence.
Jerome’s face was as red as the sherry that his father was so fond of having with dinner. But Mr. Funcoot would never have known it with the way the boy’s face was nearly buried inside the book. Like a puppet having its strings yanked, Mr. Funcoot rose from the desk and started across the room toward his student.
Jerome was surprised by the sensation of a hand gently gripping his shoulder a moment later. His face still quite flushed, he raised his head to see Mr. Funcoot looking down at him. Even more surprising was the fact that the man didn’t seem to be the least bit displeased—on the contrary, his expression showed quite the opposite.
“Not all actors steal the show during their first performance,” Mr. Funcoot smiled. “With many, it takes years of dedication and practice before they’re ready for the stage. Before I started teaching at the V.F.D. Training School, I had a small studio where I gave acting lessons to primary school children. One child in particular was a little girl I’ve come to know quite well as the years have gone by. When I first met her, she was every bit as unsure of herself as you are. She was friends with a few of the other students and accompanied them to their lessons. I asked her several times if she was interested in participating along with them, but she always refused. Then one day as I was getting ready to leave the studio, I overheard someone talking. I traced it the sound to the girls’ lavatory, and as I listened, I realized the voice belonged to that same little girl. Although she was just ten years old at the time, anyone would be a fool not to be impressed by her talent. She was even more gifted than some of the actors and actresses in my adult class. When I knocked on the door, everything went silent. After a few moments it pushed open and there she stood, looking every bit as embarrassed as you do now.” Jerome smiled sheepishly. “When I asked her if anyone knew about her talent, she said yes, and that the only thing stopping her was her fear of performing in front of crowds. ‘I can sing, too,’ she added, and looked away as if she had just confessed to a terrible crime.”
“What did you do?” asked Jerome, interested.
“Why, the same thing I’m doing for you now,” Mr. Funcoot replied, as if the answer should have been obvious. “I offered to help her get over her fear and to realize her full potential.”
That was the closest Jerome had ever come to being told he was talented, and he smiled up at Mr. Funcoot in gratitude. “What did she say?”
“Well, she hesitated at first. But after I managed to persuade her a little, she was more than eager to be a part of my little theater troupe.
“There isn’t enough time left in today’s lesson for us to go over what I originally had planned. Even so, I feel we got a lot accomplished in just one afternoon, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Letting go of Jerome’s shoulder, Mr. Funcoot returned to the other desk and began collecting his papers. “For your homework,” he said, shoving the papers into his briefcase, “I’d like you to read the first two acts of Romeo and Juliet. If you’re able, find a place where you can be alone and recite some of the lines out loud. Maybe if you don’t have any distractions, then you won’t be so nervous.”
“I’ll try,” Jerome promised.
“Good.” Mr. Funcoot headed for the door, and pivoted just as he’d wrapped his hand around the knob. “Before I leave, I’ll be sure to speak to your mother about those Latin lessons.”
“O.K.”
“Have a nice evening, Jerome. I’ll see you next Thursday.”
“Yes, sir. Goodnight.”
As he watched Mr. Funcoot exit the study, Jerome had no idea just how much his life had already changed.