CHAPTER 26
MY TRIUMPH_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_
On the morning of the day for which the production had been fixed, itdawned upon me that I had to meet Mrs. Goodwin and Margaret atWaterloo. All through the busy days of rehearsal, even on those awfuldays when everything went wrong and actresses, breaking down, sobbed inthe wings and refused to be comforted, I had dimly recognised the factthat when I met Margaret I should have to be honest with her. Plans forevasion had been half-matured by my inventive faculties, only to bediscarded, unpolished, on account of the insistent claims of theendless rehearsals. To have concocted a story with which to persuadeMargaret that I stood to lose money if the play succeeded would havebeen a clear day's work. And I had no clear days.
But this was not all. There was another reason. Somehow my sentimentswith regard to her were changing again. It was as if I were awakingfrom some dream. I felt as if my eyes had been blindfolded to preventme seeing Margaret as she really was, and that now the bandage had beenremoved. As the day of production drew nearer, and the play began totake shape, I caught myself sincerely admiring the girl who could hitoff, first shot, the exact shade of drivel which the London stagerequired. What culture, what excessive brain-power she must have. Howabsurdly _naive_, how impossibly melodramatic, how maudlinlysentimental, how improbable--in fact, how altogether womanly she musthave grown.
Womanly! That did it. I felt that she was womanly. And it came aboutthat it was my Margaret of the Cobo shrimping journeys that I wasprepared to welcome as I drove that morning to Waterloo Station.
And so, when the train rolled in, and the Goodwins alighted, andMargaret kissed me, by an extraordinarily lucky chance I found that Iloved her more dearly than ever.
* * * * *
That _premiere_ is still fresh in my memory.
Mrs. Goodwin, Margaret, and myself occupied the stage box, and invarious parts of the house I could see the familiar faces of those whomI had invited as my guests.
I felt it was the supreme event of my life. It was _the_ moment.And surely I should have spoilt it all unless my old-time friends hadbeen sitting near me.
Eva and Julian were with Mr. and Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell in the boxopposite us. To the Barrel Club I had sent the first row of the dresscircle. It was expensive, but worth it. Hatton and Sidney Price were inthe stalls. Tom Blake had preferred a free pass to the gallery. Kit andMalim were at the back of the upper circle (this was, Malim told me,Kit's own choice).
One by one the members of the orchestra took their places for theoverture, and it was to the appropriate strains of "Land of Hope andGlory" that the curtain rose on the first act of my play.
The first act, I should mention (though it is no doubt superfluous todo so) is bright and suggestive, but ends on a clear, firm note ofpathos. That is why, as soon as the lights went up, I levelled myglasses at the eyes of the critics. Certainly in two cases, and, Ithink, in a third, I caught the glint of tear-drops. One critic wasblowing his nose, another sobbed like a child, and I had a hurriedvision of a third staggering out to the foyer with his hand to hiseyes. Margaret was removing her own tears with a handkerchief. Mrs.Goodwin's unmoved face may have hidden a lacerated soul, but she didnot betray herself. Hers may have been the thoughts that lie too deepfor tears. At any rate, she did not weep. Instead, she drew from herreticule the fragmentary writings of an early Portuguese author. Theseshe perused during the present and succeeding _entr'actes_.
Pressing Margaret's hand, I walked round to the Gunton-Cresswells's boxto see what effect the act had had on them. One glance at their faceswas enough. They were long and hard. "This is a real compliment," Isaid to myself, for the whole party cut me dead. I withdrew, delighted.They had come, of course, to assist at my failure. I had often observedto Julian how curiously lacking I was in dramatic instinct, and Julianhad predicted to Eva and her aunt and uncle a glorious fiasco. Theywere furious at their hopes being so egregiously disappointed. Had theydreamt of a success they would have declined to be present. Indeed,half-way through Act Two, I saw them creeping away into the night.
The Barrel Club I discovered in the bar. As I approached, I heardMichael declare that "there'd not been such an act produced since hisshow was put on at----" He was interrupted by old Maundrell assertingthat "the business arranged for valet reminded him of a story aboutLeopold Lewis."
They, too, added their quota to my cup of pleasure by being distinctlyfrigid.
Ascending to the gallery I found another compliment awaiting me. TomBlake was fast asleep. The quality of Blake's intellect was in inverseratio to that of Mrs. Goodwin. Neither of them appreciated the stuffthat suited so well the tastes of the million; and it was consequentlyquite consistent that while Mrs. Goodwin dozed in spirit Tom Blakeshould snore in reality.
With Hatton and Price I did not come into contact. I noticed, however,that they wore an expression of relief at the enthusiastic reception myplay had received.
But an encounter with Kit and Malim was altogether charming. They hadhad some slight quarrel on the way to the theatre, and had found ameans of reconciliation in their mutual emotion at the pathos of thefirst act's finale. They were now sitting hand in hand telling eachother how sorry they were. They congratulated me warmly.
* * * * *
A couple of hours more, and the curtain had fallen.
The roar, the frenzied scene, the picture of a vast audience, half-madwith excitement--how it all comes back to me.
And now, as I sit in this quiet smoking-room of a St. Peter's Porthotel, I hear again the shout of "Author!" I see myself again steppingforward from the wings. That short appearance of mine, that briefspeech behind the footlights fixed my future....
* * * * *
"James Orlebar Cloyster, the plutocratic playwright, to Margaret, onlydaughter of the late Eugene Grandison Goodwin, LL.D."
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 29
