CHAPTER XIV.
A little before the end of that performance of "Voltaire," Orson Vanemade his way to Arthur Wantage's dressing-room. They had, in theircharacter of men in some position of eminence in different phases of thetown's life, a slight acquaintance. They met, now and then, at theMummers' Club. Vane's position put him above possibility of affront byWantage in even the most arrogant and mannerless of the latter's moods.
Vane's invitation to a little supper, a little chat, and a little smoke,just for the duet of them, brought forth Wantage's most winning smile ofacquiescence.
"Delighted, dear chap," he vowed. He could be, when he chose, the mostwinning of mortals. He was, during the drive to Vane's house, anadmirable companion. He told stories, he made polite rejoinders, he wasall glitter and graciousness. But it was when he was seated to anappetizing little supper that he became most splendid.
"My dear Vane," he said, lifting a glass to the light, "you should writeme a play. I am sure you could do it. These fellows who are in the merebusiness of it,--well, they are really impossible. They are so vulgar,so dreadful to do business with. I hate business, I am a child in suchaffairs; everyone cheats me. I mean to have none but gentlemen on mybusiness staff next season. The others grate on me, Vane, they grate.And if I could only gather a company of actors who were alsogentlemen--Oh, I assure you, one cannot believe what things I endure.The stupidity of actors!" He pronounced the word as if it were accentedon the last syllable. He raised his eyes to heaven as he faltered indescription of the stupidities he had to contend with.
"Write a play?" said Orson, "I fear that would be out of my line. Imerely live, you know; I do not describe."
"Oh, I think you would be just the man. You would give me a play thatsociety would like. You would make no mistakes of taste. And think, mydear fellow, just think of the prestige my performance would give you.It would be the making of you. You would be launched. You would need noother recommendation. When you approach any of these manager fellows allyou have to do is to say, 'Wantage is doing a play of mine.' That is ahallmark; it means success for a young man."
"Perhaps. But I have no ambitions in that way. How do you like myBonnheimer?"
"H'm--not bad, Vane, not bad. But you should taste my St. Innesse. It isa '74. I got it from the cellars of the Duke of Arran. You know Merrill,the wine-merchant on Broadway? Shrewd fellow! Always keeps me in mind;whenever he sees a sale of a good cellar on the other side, he puts in abid; knows he can always depend on Wantage taking the bouquet of it offhis hands. You must take dinner with me some night, and try that St.Innesse. Ex-President Richards told me, the other evening, that it wasthe mellowest vintage he had tasted in years. You know Richards? Oh, youshould, you should!"
Vane listened, quietly amused. The vanity, the egoism of this playerwere so obvious, so transparent, so blatant. He wondered, more thanever, what was under that mask of arrogance and conceit. The perfectfrankness of the conceit made it almost admirable.
"You know," Wantage remarked presently, "I'm really playing truant,taking supper with you. I ought to be studying."
"A new play?"
"No. My curtain speech for to-morrow night. It's the last night of theseason, and they expect it of me, you know. I've vowed, time and again,I would never make another curtain-speech in my life, but they will havethem, they will have them!" He sighed, in submission to his fate. Thenhe returned to a previous thought. "I wish, though," he said, "that Icould persuade you to do a play for me. Think it over! Think of the nameit would give you. Or you might try managing me. Eh, how does thatstrike you? Such a relief to me if I could deal with a gentleman. Youhave no idea--the cads there are in the theatre! They resent my being aman who tries to prove a little better educated than themselves. Theyhate me because I am college-bred, you know; they prefer actors whonever read. How many books do you think I read before I attempted_Voltaire_? A little library, I tell you. And then the days I spent innoting the portraits! I traveled France in my search. For the actor whotakes historic characters there cannot be too many documents.Imagination alone is not enough. And then the labor of making the playpresentable; I wish you could see the thing as it first came to me! Youwould think a man like O'Deigh would have taken into consideration theactor? But no; the play, as O'Deigh left it, might have been for a stockcompany. _Frederick the Great_ was as fine a part as my own. Oh, theyare numbskulls. And the rehearsals! Actors are sheep, simply sheep. Thepapers say I am a brute at rehearsals. My dear Vane, I swear to you thatif Nero were in my place he would massacre all the minor actors in theland. And they expect the salaries of intelligent persons!"
Vane, listening, wondered why Wantage, under such an avalanche ofirritations, continued such life. Gradually it dawned on him that allthis fume and fret was merely part of the man's mummery; it was hisappeal to the sympathy of his audience; his argument against thereputation his occasional exhibitions of rage and waywardness had givenhim.
Vane's desire to penetrate the surface of this conscious imitator, thisfellow who slipped off this character to assume that, grew keener andkeener. Where, under all this crust of alien form and action, was theindividual, human thought and feeling? Or was there any left? Had theconstant corrosion of simulated emotions burnt out all the originalcharacter of the mind?
Vane could not sufficiently hasten the end for which he had invitedWantage.
"You are," he said presently, as a lull in the other's monologue allowedhim an opening, "something of an amateur of tapestry, of pictures, ofbijouterie. I have a little thing or two, in my dressing-room, that Iwish you would give me an opinion on."
They took their cigarettes into the adjoining dressing-room. Wantagewent, at once, to the mirrors.
"Ah, Florence, I see." He frowned, in critical judgment; he went hummingabout the room, singing little German phrases to the pictures, snatchesof chansonettes to the tapestries. He was very enjoyable as a spectacle,Vane told himself. He tiptoed over the room, now in the mode of hisearliest success, "The King of Dandies," now in the half limping styleof his "Rigoletto."
"You should have seen the Flemish things I had!" he declared. That washis usual way of noting the belongings of others; they reminded him ofhis own superior specimens. "I sold them for a song, at auction. Don'tyou think one tires of one's surroundings, after a time? People go tothe hills and the seashore, because they tire of town. I have the samefeeling about pictures, and furniture, and bric-a-brac. After a time,they tire me. I have to get rid of them. I sell them at auction. Peopleare always glad to bid for something that has belonged to ArthurWantage. But everything goes for a song. Oh, it is ruinous, ruinous." Hepeered, and pirouetted about the corners. "Ah," he exclaimed, "and hereis something covered up! A portrait? Something rare?" He posed in frontof it, affecting the most devouring curiosity.
"A sort of portrait," said Vane, touching the cord at back of themirror.
"Ah," said Wantage, gazing, "you are right. A sort of portrait." And helaughed, feebly, feebly. "That Bonnheimer," he muttered, "a deuce of awine!" He clutched at a chair, reeling into it.
Vane, passing to the mirror's face, took what image it turned to him,and then, leisurely, replaced the curtain.
He surveyed the figure in the chair for a moment or so. Then he calledNevins. "Nevins," he said, "where the devil are you? Never where you'rewanted. What does one pay servants outrageous wages for! They conspireto cheat one, they all do. Nevins!" Nevins appeared, wide-eyed at thisoutburst. He was prepared for many queer exhibitions on the part of hismaster, but this--this, to a faithful servant! He stood silent,expectant, reproachful.
"Nevins," his master commanded, "have this--this actor put to bed. Usethe library; make the two couches serve. He'll stay here for twenty-fourhours; you understand, twenty-four hours. You will take care of him. Thewine was badly corked, to-night, Nevins. You grow worse every day. Youare in league to drive me distracted. It is an outrage. Why do you standthere, and shake, in that absurd fashion? It makes me quite nervous. Dogo away, Nevins, go away!"
The Imitator: A Novel Page 14
