The Regent

by Arnold Bennett

  VII

  Often during the brief night he gazed sleepily at the vague next bedand mused upon the extraordinariness of women's consciences. His wifeslept like an innocent. She always did. It was as though she gentlyexpired every evening and returned gloriously to life every morning.The sunshiny hours between three and seven were very long to him, butit was indisputable that he did not hear the clock strike six: whichwas at any rate proof of a little sleep to the good. At five minutespast seven he thought he heard a faint rustling noise in the corridor,and he arose and tiptoed to the door and opened it. Yes, the Majestichad its good qualities! He had ordered that all the London morningdaily papers should be laid at his door as early as possible--andthere the pile was, somewhat damp, and as fresh as fruit, with aslight odour of ink. He took it in.

  His heart was beating as he climbed back into bed with it and arrangedpillows so that he could sit up, and unfolded the first paper. Nelliehad not stirred.

  Once again he was disappointed in the prominence given by the powerfulLondon press to his London enterprise. In the first newspaper, avery important one, he positively could not find any criticism of theRegent's first night. There was nearly a page of the offensive IsabelJoy, who was now appealing, through the newspapers, to the Presidentof the United States. Isabel had been christened the World-Circler,and the special correspondents of the entire earth were gathered abouther carpeted cell. Hope still remained that she would reach Londonwithin the hundred days. An unknown adherent of the cause for whichshe suffered had promised to give ten thousand pounds to that causeif she did so. Further, she was receiving over sixty proposals ofmarriage a day. And so on and so on! Most of this he gathered in aninstant from the headlines alone. Nauseating! Another annoying item inthe paper was a column and a half given to the foundation-stone-layingof the First New Thought Church, in Dean Street, Soho--about a coupleof hundred yards from its original site. He hated the First NewThought Church as one always hates that to which one has done aninjury.

  Then he found what he was searching for: "Regent Theatre. Productionof poetical drama at London's latest playhouse." After all, it waswell situated in the paper, on quite an important page, and there wasover a column of it. But in his nervous excitation his eyes had missedit. His eyes now read it. Over half of it was given up to a discussionof the Don Juan legend and the significance of the Byronic characterof Haidee--obviously written before the performance. A descriptionof the plot occupied most of the rest, and a reference to the actingended it. "Miss Rose Euclid, in the trying and occasionally beautifulpart of Haidee, was all that her admirers could have wished." ..."Miss Cunningham distinguished herself by her diction and bearing inthe small part of the Messenger." The final words were, "The receptionwas quite favourable."

  "Quite favourable" indeed! Edward Henry had a chill. Good heavens, wasnot the reception ecstatically, madly, foolishly enthusiastic? "Why!"he exclaimed within, "I never saw such a reception!" It was true, butthen he had never seen any other first night. He was shocked, as wellas chilled. And for this reason: for weeks past all the newspapers, intheir dramatic gossip, had contained highly sympathetic references tohis enterprise. According to the paragraphs, he was a wondrousman, and the theatre was a wondrous house, the best of all possibletheatres, and Carlo Trent was a great writer, and Rose Euclid exactlyas marvellous as she had been a quarter of a century before, and theprospects of the intellectual-poetic drama in London so favourableas to amount to a certainty of success. In those columns of dramaticgossip there was no flaw in the theatrical world. In those columnsof dramatic gossip no piece ever failed, though sometimes a piece waswithdrawn, regretfully and against the wishes of the public, to makeroom for another piece. In those columns of dramatic gossip theatricalmanagers, actors, and especially actresses, and even authors, werebenefactors of society, and therefore they were treated with thedeference, the gentleness, the heartfelt sympathy which benefactors ofsociety merit and ought to receive.

  The tone of the criticism of the first night was different--it wassubtly, not crudely, different. But different it was.

  The next newspaper said the play was bad and the audience indulgent.It was very severe on Carlo Trent, and very kind to the players,whom it regarded as good men and women in adversity--with particularlaudations for Miss Rose Euclid and the Messenger. The next newspapersaid the play was a masterpiece--and would be so hailed in any countrybut England. England, however--! Unfortunately this was a newspaperwhose political opinions Edward Henry despised. The next newspaperpraised everything and everybody, and called the receptiontumultuously enthusiastic. And Edward Henry felt as though somebody,mistaking his face for a slice of toast, had spread butter all overit. Even the paper's parting assurance that the future of the higherdrama in London was now safe beyond question did not remove thisdelusion of butter.

  The two following newspapers were more sketchy or descriptive, andreferred at some length to Edward Henry's own speech, with a kind ofsub-hint that Edward Henry had better mind what he was about. Threeillustrated papers and photographs of scenes and figures, but nothingimportant in the matter of criticism. The rest were "neither onething nor the other," as they say in the Five Towns. On the whole,an inscrutable press, a disconcerting, a startling, anappetite-destroying, but not a hopeless press!

  The general impression which he gathered from his perusals was thatthe author was a pretentious dullard, an absolute criminal, a genius;that the actors and actresses were all splendid and worked hard,though conceivably one or two of them had been set impossibletasks--to wit, tasks unsuited to their personalities; that he himselfwas a Napoleon, a temerarious individual, an incomprehensible fellow;and that the future of the intellectual-poetic drama in London wasnot a topic of burning actuality.... He remembered sadly thesuperlative-laden descriptions, in those same newspapers, of thetheatre itself, a week or two back, the unique theatre in which theoccupant of every seat had a complete and uninterrupted view of thewhole of the proscenium opening. Surely that fact alone ought to haveensured proper treatment for him!

  Then Nellie woke up and saw the scattered newspapers.

  "Well," she asked, "what do they say?"

  "Oh!" he replied lightly, with a laugh. "Just about what you'dexpect. Of course you know what a first-night audience always is. Toogenerous. And ours was, particularly. Miss April saw to that. Shehad the Azure Society behind her, and she was determined to help RoseEuclid. However, I should say it was all right--I should say it wasquite all right. I told you it was a gamble, you know."

  When Nellie, dressing, said that she considered she ought to go backhome that day, he offered no objection. Indeed he rather wanted herto go. Not that he had a desire to spend the whole of his time at thetheatre, unhampered by provincial women in London. On the contrary, hewas aware of a most definite desire not to go to the theatre. He layin bed and watched with careless curiosity the rapid processes ofNellie's toilette. He had his breakfast on the dressing-table (for hewas not at Wilkins's, neither at the Grand Babylon). Then he helpedher to pack, and finally he accompanied her to Euston, where shekissed him with affectionate common sense and caught the twelve five.He was relieved that nobody from the Five Towns happened to be goingdown by that train.

  As he turned away from the moving carriage the evening papers had justarrived at the bookstalls. He bought the four chief organs--one green,one yellowish, one white, one pink--and scanned them self-consciouslyon the platform. The white organ had a good heading: "Re-birth of theintellectual drama in London. What a provincial has done. Opinions ofleading men." Two columns altogether! There was, however, little inthe two columns. The leading men had practised a sagacious caution.They, like the press as a whole, were obviously waiting to see whichway the great elephantine public would jump. When the enormous animalhad jumped they would all exclaim: "What did I tell you?" The othercritiques were colourless. At the end of the green critique occurredthe following sentence: "It is only fair to state, nevertheless,that the play was favourably received by an apparently enthusia
sticaudience."

  "Nevertheless!" ... "Apparently!"

  Edward Henry turned the page to the theatrical advertisements.

  "REGENT THEATRE. (Twenty yards from Piccadilly Circus.) 'The Orient Pearl,' by Carlo Trent. Miss ROSE EUCLID. Every evening at 8.30. Matinees every Wednesday and Saturday at 2.30. Box-office open 10 to 10. Sole Proprietor--E.H. Machin."

  Unreal! Fantastic! Was this he, Edward Henry? Could it be his mother'sson?

  Still--"Matinees every Wednesday and Saturday." "_Every_ Wednesday andSaturday." That word implied and necessitated a long run--anyhow a runextending over months. That word comforted him. Though he knew as wellas you do that Mr. Marrier had composed the advertisement, and that hehimself was paying for it, it comforted him. He was just like a child.