XVIII
It was, indeed, the playwright. Each night he left his boarding-place,drawn by an impulse he could not resist, to walk slowly to and froopposite the theatre entrance, calculating with agonized eye the meagrenumbers of those who entered. At times he took his stand near the doorin a shadowy nook (with coat-collar rolled high about his ears), inorder to observe the passing stream, hoping, exulting, and sufferingalternately as groups from the crowd paused for a moment to study thedisplayed photographs, only to pass on to other amusement with somecareless allusion to the fallen star.
This hurt him worst of all--that these motes, these cheap little boysand girls, could now sneer at or pity Helen Merival. "I brought her tothis," he repeated, with morbid sense of power. "When she met me she wasqueen of the city; now she is an object of pity."
This feeling of guilt, this egotism deepened each night as he watchedthe city's pleasure-seekers pace past the door. It was of no avail tosay that the few who entered were of higher type than the many whopassed. "The profession which Helen serves cannot live on the wishes ofthe few, the many must be pleased. To become exclusive in appeal is todie of hunger. This is why the sordid, commonplace playwrights and thebusiness-like managers succeed while the idealists fail. There is aniron law of limitation here."
"That is why my influence is destructive," he added, and was reassuredin the justice of his resolution to take himself out of Helen's life."Everything I stand for is inimical to her interests. To follow my pathis to eat dry crusts, to be without comfort. To amuse this great,moiling crowd, to dance for them like a monkey, to pander to their basepassions, this means success, and so long as her acting does not smirchher own soul what does it matter?" In such wise he sometimes argued inhis bitterness and wrath.
From the brilliant street, from the gay crowds rolling on in search ofwitless farce-comedy and trite melodrama, the brooding idealist climbedone night to the gallery to overlook a gloomy, empty auditorium.Concealing himself as best he could, he sat through the performance,tortured by some indefinable appeal in Helen's voice, hearing with coldand sinking heart the faint applause from the orchestra chairs whichused to roar with bravos and sparkle with the clapping of white andjewelled hands.
There was something horrifying in this change. In his morbid andoverwrought condition it seemed murderous. At last a new resolution sethis lips in a stern line, and when the curtain fell on the last act hismind was made up. "I will write one more play for the sensation-lovingfools, for these flabby business men and their capon-stuffed wives. Iwill mix them a dramatic cocktail that will make them sit up. I willcreate a dazzling role for Helen, one that will win back all herold-time admirers. They shall come like a roaring tide, and she shallrecoup herself for every loss--in purse and prestige."
It was this night, when his face was white with suffering, that Helencaught a glimpse of him hanging across the railing of the upper balcony.
He went no more to see her play. In his small, shabby room in a mustyhouse on one of the old side streets he set to work on his new plan. Hewrote now without fervor, without elation, plodding along hour afterhour, erasing, interlining, destroying, rewriting. He toiled terribly.He permitted himself no fancy flights. He calculated now. "I must have ayoung and beautiful duchess or countess," he mused, bitterly. "Ourdemocratic public loves to see nobility. She must peril her honor for alover--a wonderful fellow of the middle-class, not royal, but near it.The princess must masquerade in a man's clothing for some high purpose.There must be a lord high chamberlain or the like who discovers her onthis mission to save her lover, and who uses his discovery to demand herhand in marriage for his son--"
In this cynical mood he worked, sustained only by the memory of "TheGlittering Woman" whose power and beauty had once dazzled him. Slowlythe new play took shape, and, try as he might, he could not keep out ofit a line now and then of real drama--of literature. Each act wasdesigned to end with a clarion call to the passions, and he wasperfectly certain that the curtain would rise again and again at theclose. At every point was glitter and the rush of heroics.
He lived sparely, seeing no one, going out only at night for a walk inthe square. To send to his brother or his father for money he wouldnot, not even to write his wonder-working drama. His letters home, whilebrief, were studiedly confident of tone. The play-acting business andall those connected with it stood very remote from the farming villagein which Dr. Donald Douglass lived, and when he read from his son'sletters references to his dramas his mind took but slight hold upon thewords. His replies were brief and to the point. "Go back to yourbuilding and leave the play-actors to themselves. They're a poor, uneasylot at the best." To him an architect was a man who built houses andbarns, with a personal share in the physical labor, a wholesome, manlybusiness. The son understood his father's prejudices, and they formed abarrier to his approach when in need.
On the morning of the fifteenth day _Alessandra_ went to thetype-writer, and the weary playwright lifted his head and took a full,free breath. He was convinced beyond any question that this melodramawould please. It had all the elements which he despised, therefore itmust succeed. His desire to see Helen now overpowered him. Worn with histoil and exultant in his freedom, he went out into the street to seewhat the world was doing.
_Enid's Choice_ was still running. A slight gain at the end of the firstweek had enabled Helen to withhold her surrender to mammon. The secondweek increased the attendance, but the loss on the two plays was nowvery heavy, and Hugh and Westervelt and all her friends as well urgedher to give way to the imperious public; but some deep loyalty toDouglass, some reason which she was not free to give, made her say, "No,while there is the slightest hope I am going to keep on." To her mothershe said: "They are associated in my mind with something sweet andfine--a man's aspiration. They taste good in my mouth after all theseyears of rancid melodrama."
To herself she said: "If they succeed--if they win the public--my loverwill come back. He can then come as a conqueror." And the hope of this,the almost certain happiness and honor which awaited them both led herto devise new methods of letting the great non-theatre-going public knowthat in George Douglass's _Enid_ they might be comforted--that it was,indeed, a dramatic sign of promise. "We will give it a faithful trialhere, then go on the road. Life is less strenuous in the smallertowns--they have time to think."
Hugh and Westervelt counselled against any form of advertising thatwould seem to set the play in a class by itself, but Helen, made keen byher suffering, bluntly replied: "You are both wrong, utterly wrong. Ouronly possible chance of success lies in reaching that vast, sane,thoughtful public which seldom or never goes to the theatre. This publicvery properly holds a prejudice against the theatrical world, but itwill welcome a play which is high and poetic without being dull. Thispublic is so vast it makes the ordinary theatre-going public seem but ahandful. We must change all our methods of printing."
These ideas were sourly adopted in the third week, just when a note fromDouglass reached her by the hand of a special messenger. In this letterhe said: "I have completed another play. I have been grubbing night andday with incessant struggle to put myself and all my ideals aside--togive the public what it wants--to win your old admirers back, in orderthat I might see you playing once more to crowded and brilliant houses.It will succeed because it is diametrically opposed to all I haveexpressed. It is my sacrifice. Will you accept it? Will you read myplay? Shall I send it to you?"
Something went out from this letter which hurt Helen deeply. First ofall there was a certain humble aloofness in his attitude which troubledher, but more significant still was his confessed departure from hisideals. Her brave and splendid lover had surrendered to the enemy--forher sake. Her first impulse was to write refusing to accept hissacrifice. But on second thought she craftily wrote: "I do not like tothink of you writing to please the public, which I have put aside, butcome and bring your play. I cannot believe that you have really writtendown to a melodramatic audience. What I will do I cannot say till I haves
een your piece. Where have you kept yourself? Have you been West? Comeand tell me all about it."
To this self-contained note he replied by sending the drama. "No, Icannot come till Hugh and you have read and accepted this play. I wantyour manager to pass on _Alessandra_. You know what I mean. You are anidealist like myself. You will condemn this drama, but Westervelt maysee in it a chance to restore the glitter to his theatre. Ask them bothto read it--without letting them know who wrote it. If they accept it,then I can meet them again on equal terms. I long to see you; but I amin disgrace and infinitely poorer than when I first met you."
Over this letter Helen pondered long. Her first impulse was to send theplay back without reading it, but her love suggested another subterfuge."I will do his will, and if Hugh and Westervelt find the play acceptableI will share in his triumph. But I will not do the play except as a lastresort--for his sake. _Enid_ is more than holding its own. So long as itdoes I will not permit him to lower his splendid powers."
To Hugh she carelessly said: "Here is another play--a melodrama, tojudge from the title. Look it over and see if there is anything in it."
As plays were constantly coming in to them, Hugh took this one quite asa matter of routine, with expectation of being bored. He was a littlesurprised next morning when she asked, "Did you look into thatmanuscript?"
He answered: "No. I didn't get time."
She could hardly conceal her impatience. "I wish you'd go over it thismorning. From the title it's one of those middle-age Italian things thatcostume well."
"Oh, is it?" he exclaimed. "Well, I'll get right at it." Her interest init more than the title moved him. It was a most hopeful sign ofweakening on her part.
He came to lunch full of enthusiasm. "Say, sis, that play is a corker.There is a part in it that sees the _Baroness_ and goes her one better.If the last act keeps up we've got a prize-winner. Who's Edwin Baxter,anyhow?"
Helen quietly stirred her tea. "I never heard the name before. A new manin the theatrical world, apparently."
"Well, he's all right. I'm going over the whole thing again. Have youread it?"
"No, I thought best to let you and Westervelt decide this time. I merelyglanced at it."
"Well, it looks like the thing to pull us out of our hole."
That night Westervelt came behind the scenes with shining face. "I hopeyou will consent to do this new piece; it is a cracker-jack." He grewcautious. "It really is an immensely better piece of work than _TheBaroness_, and yet it has elements of popularity. I have read ithastily. I shall study it to-night. If it looks as big to me to-morrowmorning as now I will return to the old arrangement with you--if youwish."
"How is the house to-night?" she asked.
His face dropped. "No better than last night." He shrugged hisshoulders. "Oh, ten or fifteen dollars, maybe. We can play all winter totwo hundred dollars a night with this play. I do not understand suchaudiences. Apparently each man sends just one to take his place. Thereis no increase."
"Well, report to me to-morrow about _Alessandra_, then I will decideupon the whole matter."
In spite of herself she shared in the glow which shone on the faces ofher supports, for the word had been passed to the leading members thatthey were going back to the old drama. "They've found a new play--acorking melodrama."
Royleston straightened. "What's the subject?"
"Middle-age Italian intrigue, so Hugh says--bully costumes--a wonder ofa part for Merival."
"Then we are on velvet again," said Royleston.
The influence of the news ran through the action on the stage. Theperformance took on spirit and gusto. The audience immediately felt theglow of the players' enthusiasm, and warmed to both actress andplaywright, and the curtain went down to the most vigorous applause ofthe entire run. But Westervelt did not perceive this, so engrossed washe in the new manuscript. Reading was prodigious labor for him--requiredall his attention.
He was at the hotel early the next morning, impatient to see his star.As he waited he figured on a little pad. His face was flushed as if withdrink. His eyes swam with tears of joy, and when Helen appeared he tookher hand in both his fat pads, crying out:
"My dear lady, we have found you a new play. It is to be a bigproduction. It will cost a barrel of money to put it on, but it is awinner. Tell the writer to come on and talk terms."
Helen remained quite cool. "You go too fast, Herr Westervelt. I have notread the piece. I may not like the title role."
The manager winced. "You will like it--you must like it. It is awonderful part. The costuming is magnificent--the scenes superb."
"Is there any text?"
Westervelt did not feel the sarcasm. "Excellent text. It is notSardou--of course not--but it is of his school, and very well doneindeed. The situations are not new, but they are powerfully worked out.I am anxious to secure it. If not for you, for some one else."
"Very well. I will read the manuscript. If I like it I will send for theauthor."
With this show of tepid interest on the part of his star Westervelt hadto be content. To Hugh he complained: "The influence of that crazyDouglass is strong with her yet. I'm afraid she will turn down thispart."
Hugh was also alarmed by her indifference, and at frequent intervalsduring the day asked how she was getting on with the reading.
To this query she each time replied: "Slowly. I'm giving it carefulthought."
She was, indeed, struggling with her tempted self. She was more deeplycurious to read the manuscript than any one else could possibly be, andyet she feared to open the envelope which contained it. She did not wishto be in any sense a party to her lover's surrender. She knew that hemust have written falsely and without conviction to have made such aprofound impression on Westervelt. The very fact that the theme wasItalian, and of the Middle Ages, was a proof of his abandonment of acardinal principle, for he had often told her how he hated all that sortof thing. "What kind of a national drama would that be which dealtentirely with French or Italian mediaeval heroes?" he had once asked,with vast scorn.
It would win back her former worshippers, she felt sure of that. Thetheatre would fill again with men whose palates required the highlyseasoned, the far-fetched. The critics would rejoice in their victory,and welcome Helen Merival to her rightful place with added fervor. Thebill-boards would glow again with magnificent posters of Helen Merival,as _Alessandra_, stooping with wild eyes and streaming hair over herslain paramour on the marble stairway, a dagger in her hand. Peoplewould crowd again behind the scenes at the close of the play. Themagazines would add their chorus of praise.
And over against this stood the slim, poetic figure of _Enid_, so whiteof soul, so simple, so elemental of appeal. A whole world lay betweenthe two parts. All that each stood for was diametrically opposed to theother. One was modern as the telephone, true, sound, and revealing. Theother false from beginning to end, belonging to a world that neverexisted, a brilliant, flashing pageant, a struggle of beasts in robes ofgold and velvet--assassins dancing in jewelled garters. Every scene,every motion was worn with use on the stage, and yet her own romance,her happiness, seemed to depend upon her capitulation as well as his.
"If they accept _Alessandra_ he will come back to me proudly--at leastwith a sense of victory over his ignoble enemies. If I return it he willknow I am right, but will still be left so deeply in my debt that hewill never come to see me again." And with this thought she determinedupon a course of action which led at least to a meeting and to areconciliation between the author and the manager, and with the thoughtof seeing him again her heart grew light.
When she came to the theatre at night Westervelt was waiting at thedoor.
"Well?" he asked, anxiously. "What do you think of it?"
"I have sent for the author," she answered, coldly. "He will meet meto-morrow at eleven. Come to the hotel and I will introduce him to you."
"Splendid! splendid!" exclaimed the manager. "You found it suited toyou! A great part, eh?"
"I like it better
than _The Baroness_," she replied, and left himbroad-faced with joy.
"She is coming sensible again," he chuckled. "Now that that crank is outof the way we shall see her as she was--triumphant."
Again the audience responded to every line she spoke, and as she playedsomething reassuring came up to her from the faces below. The house wasperceptibly less empty, but the comfort arose from something moreintangible than an increase of filled chairs. "I believe the tide hasturned," she thought, exultantly, but dared not say so to Hugh.
That night she sent a note to Douglass, and the words of her messagefilled him with mingled feelings of exultation and bitterness:
"You have won! Westervelt and Hugh are crazy to meet the author of_Alessandra_. They see a great success for you, for me, for all of us.Westervelt is ready to pour out his money to stage the thing gorgeously.Come to-morrow to meet them. Come proudly. You will find them both readyto take your hand--eager to acknowledge that they have misjudged you. Wehave both made a fight for good work and failed. No one can blame us ifwe yield to necessity."
The thought of once more meeting her, of facing her managers withconfident gaze on equal terms, made Douglass tremble with excitement. Hedressed with care, attempting as best he could to put away all the dustand odors of his miserable tenement, and went forth looking much likethe old-time, self-confident youth who faced down the clerk. His mindran over every word in Helen's note a dozen times, extracting each timenew and hidden meanings.
"If it is the great success they think it, my fortune is made." Hisspirits began to overleap all bounds. "It will enable me to meet her asan equal--not in worth," he acknowledged--"she is so much finer andnobler than any man that ever lived--but I will at least be somethingmore than a tramp kennelled in a musty hole." His mind took anotherflight. "I can go home with pride also. Oh, success is a sovereignthing. Think of Hugh and Westervelt waiting to welcome me--and Helen!"
When he thought of her his confident air failed him, his face flushed,his hands felt numb. She shone now like a far-off violet star. She hadrecovered her aloofness, her allurement in his mind, and it wasdifficult for him to realize that he had once known her intimately andthat he had treated her inconsiderately. "I must have been mad," heexclaimed. It seemed months since he had looked into her face.
The clerk he dreaded to meet was off duty, and as the elevator boy knewhim he did not approach the desk, but went at once to Helen'sapartments.
She did not meet him at the door as he had foolishly expected. Delia,the maid, greeted him with a smile, and led him back to thereception-room and left him alone.
He heard Helen's voice, the rustle of her dress, and then she stoodbefore him. As he looked into her face and read love and pity in hereyes he lost all fear, all doubt, and caught her hand in both of his,unable to speak a word in his defence--unable even to tell her of hisgratitude and love.
She recovered herself first, and, drawing back, looked at himsearchingly. "You poor fellow, you've been working like mad. You areill!"
"No, I am not ill--only tired. I have had only one thought, one aimsince I saw you last, that was to write something to restore you to yourold place----"
"I do not want to be restored. Now listen, Lord Douglass. If I do_Alessandra_, it is because we both need the money and the prestige; butI do not despair, and you must not. Please let me manage this wholeaffair; will you?"
"I am your slave."
"Don't say such things. I don't want you to be humble. I want you to beas brave, as proud as before."
She said this in such a tone that he rose to it. His face reset in linesof resolution. "I will not be humble with any other human being but you.I worship you."
She stood for a moment looking at him fixedly, a smile of pride andtender dream on her lips, then said, "You must not say such things tome--not now." The bell rang. "Here comes your new-found admirers," sheexclaimed, gleefully. "Now, you sit here, a little in the shadow, and Iwill bring them in."
Douglass heard Hugh ask, eagerly, "Is he here?"
"Yes, he is waiting for you." A moment later she re-entered, followedclosely by Westervelt. "Herr Westervelt, let me introduce Mr. GeorgeDouglass, author of _Alessandra_, _Lillian's Duty_, and _Enid'sChoice_."
For an instant Westervelt's face was a confused, lumpy mass of amazementand resentment; then he capitulated, quick to know on which side hisbread was buttered, and, flinging out a fat hand, he roared:
"Very good joke. Ha! ha! You have fooled me completely. Mr. Douglass, Icongratulate you. You have now given Helen Merival the best part she hasever had. You found we were right, eh?"
Douglass remained a little stiff. "Yes, for the present we'll say youare right; but the time is coming--"
Hugh came forward with less of enthusiasm, but his wall of reserve wasmelting. "I'm mighty glad to know that you wrote _Alessandra_, Douglass.It is worthy of Sardou, and it will win back every dollar we've lost inthe other plays."
"That's what I wrote it for," said Douglass, sombrely.
Westervelt had no further scruples--no reservations. "Well, now, as toterms and date of production. Let's get to business."
Helen interposed. "No more of that for to-day. Mr. Douglass is tired andneeds recreation. Leave business till to-morrow. Come, let us go tomother; she is anxious to see you--and you are to breakfast with us inthe good old spirit."
It was sweet to sit with them again on the old footing--to be releasedfrom his load of guilty responsibility. To face the shining table, thedear old mother--and Helen! Something indefinably domestic and tendercame from her hesitating speech and shone in her liquid, beaming eyes.
The room swam in vivid sunshine, and seemed thus to typify the toiler'sescape from poverty and defeat.
"Don't expect me to talk," he said, slowly, strangely. "I'm too dazed,too happy to think clearly. I can't believe it. I have lived two monthsin a horrible nightmare; but now that the business men, the practicalones, say you are to be saved by me, I must believe it. I would beperfectly happy if only I had won the success on my own lines withoutcompromise."
"Put that aside," she commanded, softly. "The fuller success will come.We have that to work towards."
The Light of the Star: A Novel Page 18
