VIII
Deprivation of Helen's companionship even for a day produced in Douglasssuch longing that his hours were misery, and, though Sunday was long andlonely, Monday stretched to an intolerable length. He became greatlydisturbed, and could neither work nor sit still, so active was hisimagination. He tried to sleep, but could not, even though his nerveswere twitching for want of it; and at last, in desperate resolution, heset himself the task of walking to Grant's tomb and back, in the hopethat physical weariness would benumb his restless brain. This goodresult followed. He was in deep slumber when the bell-boy rapped at hisdoor and called, "Half-past six, sir."
He sprang up, moved by the thought, "In two hours Helen will be enteringupon that first great scene," and for the first time gave seriousconsideration to the question of an audience. "I hope Westervelt hasneglected nothing. It would be shameful if Helen played to a singleempty seat. I will give tickets away on the sidewalk rather than have itso. But, good Heavens, such a condition is impossible!"
After dressing with great care, he hastened directly to the theatre. Itwas early, and as he stepped into the entrance he found only theattendants, smiling, expectant, in their places. A doubt of successfilled him with sudden weakness, and he slipped out on the street again,not caring to be recognized by any one at that hour. "They will laugh atmy boyish excitement," he said, shamefacedly.
Broadway, the chief thoroughfare of the pleasure-seekers of allAmerica, was just beginning to thicken with life. The cafes were sendingforth gayly dressed groups of diners jovially crowding into theirwaiting carriages. Automobiles and cabs were rushing northward to meetthe theatre-goers of the up-town streets, while the humbler patrons ofthe "family circles" and "galleries" of the play-houses lower down weremoving southward on foot, sharing for a few moments in the brilliancyand wealth of the upper avenue. The surface cars, clamorous, irritable,and timid, jammed at the crossings like sheep at a river-ford, whileoverhead the electric trains thundered to and fro, crowded with othercitizens also theatre-bound. It seemed that the whole metropolis, alertto the drama, had flung its health and wealth into one narrow stream,and yet, "in all these thousands of careless citizens, who thinks of_Lillian's Duty_?" thought the unnerved playwright.
"What do these laughing, insatiate amusement-seekers care about anyone's duty? They are out to enjoy life. They are the well-to-do, thewell-fed, the careless livers. Many of them are keen, relentlessbusiness-men wearied by the day's toil. They are now seeking relaxation,and not at all concerned with acquiring wisdom or grace. They are,indeed, the very kind of men to whom my play sets the cold steel, andtheir wives, of higher purpose, of gentler wills, are, nevertheless,quite as incapable of steady and serious thought. Not one of them hasany interest in the problem I have set myself to delineate."
He was saved from utter rout by remembrance of Helen. He recalled theWondrous Woman as she had seemed to him of old, striving to regain hisformer sense of her power, her irresistible fascination. He assuredhimself that her indirect influence over the city had been proven to beenormous, almost fantastic, though her worshippers knew the real womannot at all, allured only by the aureoled actress. Yes, she wouldtriumph, even if the play failed, for they would see her at last in acongenial role wherein her nobility, her intellectual power would begiven full and free expression. Her appeal to her worshippers would bedoubled.
When he returned to the theatre a throng of people filled theentrance-way, and he was emboldened to pass in--even bowed to theattendants and to Hugh, who stood in the lobby, in shining raiment, a_boutonniere_ in his coat, his face radiating confidence and pride.
"We've got 'em coming," he announced, with glee. "We are all soldout--not a seat left, and only the necessary 'paper' out. They'recurious to see her in a new role. You are made!"
"I hope so," replied the playwright, weakly. "Tuesday night tells thestory."
Hugh laughed. "Why, man, I believe you're scared. We're all right. I cansniff victory in the air."
This confidence, so far from inspiriting Douglass, still furtherdepressed him, and he passed in and on up into the second gallery,where he had privately purchased a reserved seat with intent to sensefor himself the feeling of the upper part of the house during the firstact. Keeping his muffler pinned close so that his evening dress escapednotice, he found his way down to the railing quite secure fromrecognition by any one at the peep-hole of the curtain or in the boxes,and there took his seat to watch the late-comers ripple down the aisles.He was experienced enough to know that "first-nighters" do not alwayscount and that they are sometimes false prophets, and yet he could notsuppress a growing exaltation as the beautiful auditorium filled withmen and women such as he had himself often called "representative," and,best of all, many of the city's artists and literarians were present.
He knew also that the dramatic critics were assembling, jaded and wornwith ceaseless attendance on worthless dramas, a condition which shouldhave fitted them for the keener enjoyment of any fresh, original work,but he did not deceive himself. He knew from their snarling onslaughtson plays he had praised that they were not to be pleased withanything--at least not all of them at the same time. That they werefriendly to Helen he knew, that they would praise her he was assured,but that they would "slate" his play he was beginning to findinevitable.
As the curtain rose on the first scene he felt the full force of Helen'swords, "You won't enjoy the performance at all." He began now to pay forthe joy he had taken in her companionship. He knew the weakness of everyactor, and suffered with them and for them. Royleston from the firsttortured him by mumbling his lines, palpably "faking" at times. "Theidiot, he'll fail to give his cues!" muttered Douglass. "He'll ruin theplay." The children scared him also, they were so important to Helen atthe close of the act.
At last the star came on--so quietly that the audience did not at themoment recognize her, but when those nearest the stage started agreeting to her it was taken up all over the shining house--amagnificent "hand."
Never before had Helen Merival appeared before an audience in characterso near her own good self, and the lovely simplicity of her manner cameas a revelation to those of her admirers who had longed to know more ofher private character. For several minutes they applauded while shesmilingly bowed, but at last the clapping died away, and each auditorshrugged himself into an easy posture in his chair, waiting for thegreat star to take up her role.
This she did with a security and repose of manner which thrilledDouglass in spite of his intimate knowledge of her work at rehearsals.The subtlety of her reading, the quiet, controlled precision and graceof her action restored his confidence in her power. "She has them in herhand. She cannot fail."
The act closed triumphantly, though some among the audience began towince. Helen came before the curtain several times, and each time witheyes that searched for some one, and Douglass knew with definitenessthat she sought her playwright in order that she might share her triumphwith him. But a perverse mood had seized him. "This is all very well,but wait till the men realize the message of the play," he muttered, andlifted the programme to hide his face.
A buzz of excited comment rose from below, and though he could not heara word beyond the water-boy's call he was able to imagine the comment.
"Why, how lovely! I didn't suppose Helen Merival could do a sweet,domestic thing like that."
"Isn't her gown exquisite? I've heard she is a dainty dresser in reallife, quite removed from the kind of thing she wears on the stage. Iwish she were not so seclusive. I'd like to know her."
"But do you suppose this is her real self?"
"It must be. She doesn't seem to be acting at all. I must say I preferher in her usual parts."
"She's wonderful as _The Baroness_."
"I never let my daughters see her in those dreadful characters--they aretoo bold; but they are both here to-night. I understood it was to bequite a departure."
Douglass, knowing well that Hugh and the manager were searching for him,sat with face bent low until t
he lights were again lowered. "Now comesthe first assault. Now we will see them wince."
The second act was distinctly less pleasing to those who sat below himin the orchestra and dress circle. Applause was still hearty, but itlacked the fervor of the first act. He could see men turn and whisper toone another now and then. They laughed, of course, and remarked each tothe other, "Brown, you're getting a 'slat' to-night."
"They are cheering the actress, not the play," observed the author.
The gallery, less sensitive or more genuinely patriotic, thundered on,applauding the lines as well as the growing power of Helen'simpersonation. Royleston was at last beginning to play, the fumes of hisheavy dinner having cleared away. He began to grip his lines, and thatgave the star her first opportunity to forget his weakness and throwherself into her part. All in all, only a very discriminating ear couldhave detected a falling-off of favor in this act. The curtain was liftedfour times, and a few feeble cries for the author were heard, chieflyfrom the first balcony.
Here was the point whereat his hoped-for triumph was to have begun, butit did not. He was touched by an invisible hand which kept him to hisseat, though he knew that Helen was waiting for him to receive,hand-in-hand with her, the honors of the act.
Some foreknowledge of defeat clarified the young author's vision, and abitter melancholy crept over him as the third act unrolled. "They willgo out," he said to himself, "and they will not come back for the lastact. The play is doomed to disaster." And a flame of hatred rose in hisheart against the audience. "They are brutes!" he muttered.
The scenes were deeply exciting, the clash of interest upon interest wasswift, novel in sequence, and most dramatic in outcome, but the applausewas sharp and spasmodic, not long continued and hearty as before. Someof the men who had clapped loudest at the opening now sat gnawing theirmustaches in sullen resentment.
Douglass divined their thought: "This is a confidence game. We came tobe amused, and this fellow instructs in sociology. We didn't cough uptwo dollars to listen to a sermon; we came to be rested. There's troubleenough in the street without displaying it in a place of amusement. Thefellow ought to be cut out."
Others ceased to cheer because both acting and play had mounted beyondtheir understanding. Its grim humor, its pitiless character-drawing,wearied them. Audience and play, speaking generally, were atcross-purposes. A minority, it was true, caught every point, shoutingwith great joy, and a few, who disapproved of the play, but were mostdevoted admirers of Helen's art, joined half-heartedly in theirapplause. But the act closed dismally, notwithstanding its tremendousclimax. A chill east wind had swept over the auditorium and a fewsensitive souls shivered. "What right has Helen Merival to do a thinglike this? What possesses her? It must be true that she is infatuatedwith this young man and produces his dreadful plays to please him."
"They say she is carried away with him. He's very handsome, they tellme. I wish they'd call him out."
A buzz of complaining talk on the part of those aggrieved filled in theinterlude. The few who believed in the drama were valiant in itsdefence, but their arguments did not add to the good-will of those wholoved the actress but detested the play.
"This won't do," said the most authoritative critic, as a detachmentlined up at the bar of the neighboring saloon. "Merival must lop offthis young dramatist or he'll 'queer' her with her best friends. Shemustn't attempt to force this kind of thing down our throats."
"He won't last a week," said another.
Their finality of tone resembled that of emperors and sultans incounsel.
Douglass, sitting humped and motionless among his gallery auditors, wasclearly aware that Helen was weary and agitated, yet he remained in hisseat, his brain surging with rebellious passion.
His perverse pride was now joined by shame, who seized him by the otherarm and held him prisoner. He felt like fleeing down the fire-escape.The thought of running the gauntlet of the smirking attendants, thepossibility of meeting some of the exultant dramatic critics, most ofwhom were there to cut him to pieces, revolted him. Their joyous grinswere harder to face than cannon, therefore he cowered in his placeduring the long wait, his mind awhirl, his teeth set hard.
There were plenty of empty seats in the orchestra when the curtainlifted on the last act. Several of the critics failed to return. Theplaywright dared not look at his watch, for the scenes were dragginginterminably. His muscles ached with the sort of fatigue one feels whenriding in a slow train, and he detected himself pushing with his feet asif to hurry the action. The galleries did not display an empty bench,but he took small comfort in this, for he was not a believer in theold-time theory of pleasing the gallery. "In this city the two-dollarseats must be filled," he said. "Helen is ruined if she loses them."
He began to pity her and to blame himself. "What right had I to force myferocious theories upon her?" he asked himself, and at the moment itseemed that he had completely destroyed her prestige. She was plainlydispirited, and her auditors looked at one another in astonishment."Can this sad woman in gray, struggling with a cold audience and a groupof dismayed actors, be the brilliant and beautiful Helen Merival?"
That a part of this effect--most of it, in fact--lay in the role of_Lillian_ they had not penetration enough to distinguish; they began todoubt whether she had ever been the very great success and the powerfulwoman they had supposed her to be.
The play did not really close, the audience began to dribble out beforethe last half of the act began, and the curtain went down on the finalscene while scores of women were putting on their wraps. A loyal fewcalled Helen before the curtain, and her brave attempt to smile madeevery friendly heart bleed.
Douglass, stiff and sore, as one who has been cudgelled, rose with thecrowd and made his way to one of the outside exits, eager to escaperecognition, to become one of the indistinguishable figures of thestreet.
A couple of tousled-headed students going down the stairway before himtossed him his first and only crumb of comfort. "It won't go, ofcourse," said one, in a tone of conviction, "but it's a great play allthe same."
"Right, old man," replied the other, with the decision of a master."It's too good for this town. What New York wants is a continuousvariety show."
Douglass knew keenly, deeply, that Helen needed him--was looking forhim--but the thought of those who would be near at their meeting madehis entrance of the stage door impossible. He walked aimlessly, driftingwith the current up the street, throbbing, tense, and hot with anger,shame, and despair. At the moment all seemed lost--his play, his ownposition, and Helen. Helen would surely drop him. The incredible hadhappened--he had not merely defeated himself, he had brought battle andpain and a stinging reproof to a splendid, triumphant woman. Theenormous egotism involved in this he did not at the moment apprehend. Hewas like a wounded animal, content merely to escape.
He longed to reach her, to beg her pardon, to absolve her from anypromise, and yet he could not face Westervelt. He revolted at thethought of meeting Royleston and Miss Carmichael and Hugh. "No; it isimpossible. I will wait for her at the hotel."
At this word he was filled with a new terror. "The clerks and thebell-boys will have learned of my failure. I cannot face them to-night."And he turned and fled as if confronted by serpents. "And yet I mustsend a message. I must thank Helen and set her free. She must not gothrough another such night for my sake."
He ended by dropping into another hotel to write her a passionate note,which he sent by a messenger:
"Forgive me for the part I have played in bringing this disaster upon you. I had no idea that anything I could say or do would so deeply injure you--you the Wondrous One. It was incredible--their disdain of you. I was a fool, a selfish boaster, to allow you to go into this thing. The possible loss of money we both discussed, but that any words of mine could injure you as an artist never came to me. Believe me, my dearest friend, I am astounded. I am crushed with the thought, and I dare not show my face among your friends. I feel like an as
sassin. I will call to-morrow--I can't do it to-night. I am bleeding at the heart because I have made you share the shame and failure which I feel to-night are always to be mine. I was born to be of the minority. Please don't give another thought to me or my play. Go your own way. Get back to the plays that please people. Be happy. You have the right to be happy, and I am a selfish, unthinking criminal whom you would better forget. Don't waste another dollar or another moment on my play--it is madness. I am overwhelmed with my debt to you, but I shall repay it some day."
The Light of the Star: A Novel Page 8
