It was only gradually in the course of rehearsal, that he discovered what was being done to his play. It was not merely that Mr Drury had succeeded in importing into the lines given to him, as the war-shattered hero, a succulent emotionalism which was very far from the dramatist’s idea of that embittered and damaged character. So much, one had expected. But the plot had slowly disintegrated and reshaped itself into something revoltingly different. Originally, for example, the girl Judith (the one who had ‘gone to the bad at a cocktail party’) had not spurned the one-armed soldier (Mr Drury). Far from it. She had welcomed him and several other heroes home with indiscriminate, not to say promiscuous enthusiasm. And the hero, instead of behaving (as Mr Drury saw to it that he did in the acted version) in a highly sacrificial manner, had gone deliberately and cynically to the bad in his turn. Nor had ‘Lady Sylvia’, who rescued him from the Embankment, been (as Mr Drury’s second leading lady now represented her to be) a handsome and passionate girl deeply in love with the hero, but a nauseous, rich, elderly woman with a fancy for a gigolo, whose attentions the hero (now thoroughly deteriorated as a result of war and post-war experience) accepted without shame or remorse in exchange for the luxuries of life. And finally, when Judith, thoroughly shocked and brought to her senses by these developments, had tried to recapture him, the hero (as originally depicted) had so far lost all sense of decency as to prefer – though with a bitter sense of failure and frustration – to stick to Lady Sylvia, as the line of least resistance, and had ended, on Armistice Day, by tearing away the public trophies of laurel and poppy from the Cenotaph and being ignominiously removed by the police after a drunken and furious harangue in denunciation of war. Not a pleasant play, as originally written, and certainly in shocking taste; but an honest piece of work so far as it went. But Mr Drury had pointed out that ‘his’ public would never stand the original Lady Sylvia or the final degradation of the hero. There must be slight alterations – nothing inartistic, of course, but alterations, to make the thing more moving, more uplifting, more, in fact, true to human nature.
Because, Mr Drury pointed out, if there was one thing you could rely on, it was the essential decency of human nature, and its immediate response to general sentiments. His experience, he said, had proved it to him.
Scales had not given way without a struggle. He had fought hard over every line. But there was the contract. And in the end, he had actually written the new scenes and lines himself, not because he wanted to, but because at any rate his own lines would be less intolerable than the united efforts of cast and producer to write them for themselves. So that he could not even say that he had washed his hands of the whole beastly thing. Like his own (original) hero, he had taken the line of least resistance. Mr Drury had been exceedingly grateful to him and delighted to feel that author and management were working so well together in their common interest.
‘I know how you feel,’ he would say, ‘about altering your artistic work. Any artist feels the same. But I’ve had twenty years’ experience of the stage, and it counts, you know, it counts. You don’t think I’m right – my dear boy, I should feel just the same in your place. I’m terribly grateful for all this splendid work you’re putting in and I know you won’t regret it. Don’t worry. All young authors come up against the same difficulty. It’s just a question of experience.’
Hopeless. Scales, in desperation, had enlisted the services of an agent, who pointed out that it was now too late to get the contract altered. ‘But,’ said the agent, ‘it’s quite an honest contract, as these things go. Drury’s management has always had a very good name. We shall keep an eye on these subsidiary rights for you – you can leave that to us. I know it’s a nuisance having to alter things here and there, but it is your first play, and you’re lucky to have got in with Drury. He’s very shrewd about what will appeal to a West End audience. When once he’s established you, you’ll be in a much better position to dictate terms.’
Yes, of course, thought Scales – to dictate to Drury, or to anybody else who might want that type of play. But in a worse position than ever to get anybody to look at his serious work. And the worst of it was that the agent, as well as the actor-manager, seemed to think that his concern for his own spiritual integrity didn’t count, didn’t matter – that he would be quite genuinely consoled by his royalties.
At the end of the first week, Garrick Drury practically said as much. His own experience had been justified by the receipts. ‘When all’s said and done,’ he remarked, ‘the box-office is the real test. I don’t say that in a commercial spirit. I’d always be ready to put on a play I believed in – as an artist – even if I lost money by it. But when the box-office is happy, it means the public is happy. The box-office is the pulse of the public. Get that and you know you’ve got the heart of the audience.’
He couldn’t see. Nobody could see. John Scales’s own friends couldn’t see; they merely thought he had sold himself. And as the play settled down to run remorselessly on, like a stream of treacle, John Scales realised that there would be no end to it. It was useless to hope that the public would revolt at the insincerity of the play. They probably saw through it all right, just as the critics had done. What stood in the way of the play’s deserved collapse was the glorious figure of Garrick Drury. ‘This broken-backed play,’ said the Sunday Echo, ‘is only held together, by the magnificent acting of Mr Garrick Drury.’ ‘Saccharine as it is,’ said the Looker-On, ‘Bitter Laurel provides a personal triumph for Mr Garrick Drury.’ ‘Nothing in the play is consistent,’ said the Dial, ‘except the assured skill of Mr Garrick Drury, who –’ ‘Mr John Scales,’ said the Daily Messenger, ‘has constructed his situations with great skill to display Mr Garrick Drury in all his attitudes, and that is a sure recipe for success. We prophesy a long run for Bitter Laurel.’ A true prophecy, or so it seemed.
And there was no stopping it. If only Mr Drury would fall ill or die or lose his looks or his voice or his popularity, the beastly play might be buried and forgotten. There were circumstances under which the rights would revert to the author. But Mr Drury lived and flourished and charmed the public, and the run went on, and after that there were the touring rights (controlled by Mr Drury) and film rights (largely controlled by Mr Drury) and probably radio rights and God only knew what else. And all Mr Scales could do was to pocket the wages of sin and curse Mr Drury, who had (so pleasantly) ruined his work, destroyed his reputation, alienated his friends, exposed him to the contempt of the critics and forced him to betray his own soul.
If there was one living man in London whom John Scales would have liked to see removed from the face of the earth, it was Garrick Drury, to whom (as he was daily obliged to admit to all and sundry) he owed so much. Yet Drury was a really charming fellow. There were times when that inexhaustible charm got so much on the author’s nerves that he could readily have slain Mr Drury for his charm alone.
Yet, when the moment came, on that night of the 15th–16th April, the thing was not premeditated. Not in any real sense. It just happened. Or did it? That was a thing that even John Scales could not have said for certain. He may have felt a moral conviction, but that is not the same thing as a legal conviction. The doctor may have had his suspicions, but if so, they were not directed against John Scales. And whether they were right or wrong, nobody could say that it had made any difference; the real slayer may have been the driver of the car, or the intervening hand of Providence, sprinkling the tarmac with April showers. Or it may have been Garrick Drury, so courteously and charmingly accompanying John Scales in quest of a taxi, instead of getting straight into his own car and being whirled away in the opposite direction.
In any case, it was nearly one in the morning of Sunday when they got the film people off the premises, after a long and much-interrupted argument, during which Scales found himself, as usual, agreeing to a number of things he did not approve of but could see no way to prevent.
‘My dear John,’ said Mr Garrick Drury, pulling off his dressin
g-gown (he always conducted business interviews in a dressing-gown, if possible, feeling, with some truth, that its flowing outline suited him), ‘my dear John, I know exactly how you feel – Walter! – but it needs experience to deal with these people, and you can trust me not to allow anything inartistic – Oh, thank you, Walter. I’m extremely sorry to have kept you so late.’
Walter Hopkins was Mr Drury’s personal dresser and faithful adherent. He had not the smallest objection to being kept up all night, or all the next morning for that matter. He was passionately devoted to Mr Drury, who always rewarded his services with a kind word and the smile. He now helped Mr Drury into his coat and overcoat and handed him his hat with a gratified murmur. The dressing-room was still exceedingly untidy but, he could not help that; towards the end of the conversation, the negotiations had become so very delicate that even the devoted Walter had had to be dismissed to lurk in an adjacent room.
‘Never mind about all this,’ went on Mr Drury, indicating a litter of grease-paint, towels, glasses, siphons, ash-trays, tea-cups (Mr Drury’s aunts had looked in), manuscripts (two optimistic authors had been given audience), mascots (five female admirers had brought Mickey Mice), flowers (handed in at the stage-door) and assorted fan-mail, strewn over the furniture. ‘Just stick my things together and lock up the whisky. I’ll see Mr Scales to his taxi – you’re sure I can’t drop you anywhere, John? Oh! and bring the flowers to the car – and I’d better look through that play of young what’s his name’s – Ruggles, Buggles, you know who I mean – perfectly useless, of course, but I promised dear old Fanny – chuck the rest into the cupboard – and I’ll pick you up in five minutes.’
The night-watchman let them out; he was an infirm and aged man with a face like a rabbit, and Scales wondered what he would do if he met with a burglar or an outbreak of fire in the course of his rounds.
‘Hullo!’ said Garrick Drury, ‘it’s started to rain. But there’s a rank just down the Avenue. Now look here, John, old man, don’t you worry about this, because – Look out!’
It all happened in a flash. A small car, coming just a trifle too fast up the greasy street, braked to avoid a prowling cat, skidded, swung round at right angles and mounted the pavement. The two men leapt for safety – Scales rather clumsily, tripping and sprawling in the gutter. Drury, who was the inside, made a quick backward spring, neat as an acrobat’s, just not far enough. The bumper caught him behind the knee and flung him shoulder-first through the plate-glass window of a milliner’s shop.
When Scales had scrambled to his feet, the car was half-way through the window, with its driver, a girl, knocked senseless over the wheel; a policeman and two taxi-drivers were running towards them from the middle of the street; and Drury, very white and his face bleeding, was extricating himself from the splintered glass, with his left arm clutched in his right hand.
‘Oh, my God!’ said Drury. He staggered up against the car, and between his fingers the bright blood spurted like a fountain.
Scales, shaken and bewildered by his fall, was for the moment unable to grasp what had happened; but the policeman had his wits about him.
‘Never mind the lady,’ he said, urgently, to the taxi-men. ‘This gent’s cut an artery. Bleed to death if we ain’t quick.’ His large, competent fingers grasped the actor’s arm, found the right spot and put firm pressure on the severed blood-vessel. The dreadful spurting ceased. ‘All right, sir? Lucky you ’ad the presence of mind to ketch ’old of yourself.’ He eased the actor down on the running board, without relaxing his grip.
‘I got an ’andkercher,’ suggested one of the taxi-men.
‘That’s right,’ said the policeman. ‘’Itch it round ’is arm above the place and pull it as tight as you can. That’ll ’elp. Nasty cut it is, right to the bone, by the looks of it.’
Scales looked at the shop-window and the pavement, and shuddered. It might have been a slaughter-house.
‘Thanks very much,’ said Drury to the policeman and the taxi-man. He summoned up the ghost of a smile, and fainted.
‘Better take him into the theatre,’ said Scales. ‘The stage-door’s open. Only a step or two up the passage. It’s Mr Drury, the actor,’ he added, to explain this suggestion. ‘I’ll run along and tell them.’
The policeman nodded. Scales hurried up the passage and met Walter just emerging from the stage-door.
‘Accident!’ said Scales, breathless. ‘Mr Drury – cut an artery – they’re bringing him here.’
Walter, with a cry, flung down the flowers he was carrying and darted out. Drury was being supported up the passage by the two drivers. The policeman walked beside him still keeping a strong thumb on his arm. They brought him in, stumbling over the heaps of narcissus and daffodil; the crushed blossom smelt like funeral flowers.
‘There’s a couch in his dressing-room,’ said Scales. His mind had suddenly become abnormally clear. ‘It’s on the ground-floor. Round here to the right and across the stage.’
‘Oh, dear, oh, dear!’ said Walter. ‘Oh, Mr Drury! He won’t die – he can’t die! All that dreadful blood!’
‘Now, keep your ’ead,’ admonished the policeman. ‘Can’t you ring up a doctor and make yourself useful?’
Walter and the night-watchman made a concerted rush for the telephone, leaving Scales to guide the party across the deserted stage, black and ghostly in the light of one dim bulb high over the proscenium arch. Their way was marked by heavy red splashes on the dusty boards. As though the very sound of those boards beneath their tread had wakened the actor’s instinct, Drury opened one eye.
‘What’s happened to those lights?’ . . . Then, with returning consciousness, ‘Oh, it’s the curtain line . . . Dying, Egypt, dying . . . final appearance, eh?’
‘Rot, old man,’ said Scales, hastily. ‘You’re not dying yet by a long chalk.’
One of the taxi-drivers – an elderly man – stumbled and panted. ‘Sorry,’ said Drury, ‘to be such a weight . . . can’t help you much . . . find it easier . . . take your grip further down . . .’ The smile was twisted, but his wits and experience were back on the job. This was not the first or the hundredth time he had been ‘carried out’ from the stage of the King’s. His bearers took his gasping instructions and successfully negotiated the corner of the set. Scales, hovering in attendance, was unreasonably irritated. Of course, Drury was behaving beautifully. Courage, presence of mind, consideration for others – all the right theatrical gestures. Couldn’t the fellow be natural, even at death’s door?
Here, Scales was unjust. It was natural to Drury to be theatrical in a crisis, as it is to nine people out of ten. He was, as a matter of fact, providing the best possible justification for his own theories about human nature. They got him to the dressing-room, laid him on the couch, and were thanked.
‘My wife,’ said Drury, ‘. . . in Sussex. Don’t startle her . . . she’s had flu . . . heart not strong.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Scales. He found a towel and drew some water into a bowl. Walter came running in.
‘Dr Debenham’s out . . . away for the week-end . . . Blake’s telephoning another one . . . Suppose they’re all away . . . whatever shall we do? . . . They oughn’t to let doctors go away like this.’
‘We’ll try the police-surgeon,’ said the constable. ‘Here, you, come an ’old your thumb where I’ve got mine. Can’t trust that there bandage. Squeeze ’ard, mind, and don’t let go. And don’t faint,’ he added sharply. He turned to the taxi-men. ‘You better go and see what’s ’appened to the young lady. I blew me whistle, so you did oughter find the other constable there. You’ (to Scales) ‘will ’ave to stay here – I’ll be wanting your evidence about the accident.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Scales, busy with the towel.
‘My face,’ said Drury, putting up a restless hand. ‘Has it got the eye?’
‘No, it’s only a scalp-wound. Don’t get excited.’
‘Sure? Better dead than disfigured. Don’t want to end like Fl
orrie. Poor old Florrie. Give her my love . . . Cheer up, Walter . . . Rotten curtain, isn’t it? . . . Get yourself a drink . . . You’re certain the eye’s all right? . . . You weren’t hurt, were you, old man? . . . Hell of a nuisance for you, too . . . Stop the run . . .’
Scales, in the act of pouring out whisky for himself and Walter (who looked nearly as ready to collapse as his employer) started, and nearly dropped the bottle. Stop the run – yes, it would stop the run. An hour ago, he had been praying for a miracle to stop the run. And the miracle had happened. And if Drury hadn’t had the wits to stop the bleeding – if he had waited only one minute more – the run would have stopped, and the film would have stopped, and the whole cursed play would have stopped dead for good and all. He swallowed down the neat spirit with a jerk, and handed the second glass to Walter. It was as though he had made the thing happen by wishing for it. By wishing a little harder – Nonsense! . . . But the doctor didn’t come and, though Walter was holding on like grim death (grim death!) to the cut artery, the blood from the smaller vessels was soaking and seeping through the cloth and the bandages . . . there was still the chance, still the likelihood, still the hope . . .
This would never do. Scales dashed out into the passage and across the stage to the night-watchman’s box. The policeman was still telephoning. Drury’s chauffeur, haggard and alarmed, stood, cap in hand, talking to the taxi-men. The girl, it appeared, had been taken to hospital with concussion. The divisional police-surgeon had gone to an urgent case. The nearest hospital had no surgeon free at the moment. The policeman was trying the police-surgeon belonging to the next division. Scales went back.
The next half-hour was a nightmare. The patient, hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness, was still worrying about his face, about his arm, about the play. And the red stain on the couch spread and spread . . .
In the Teeth of the Evidence Page 19
