Jill the Reckless

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE COST OF A ROW

  I

  Otis Pilkington had left Atlantic City two hours after the conferencewhich had followed the dress-rehearsal, firmly resolved never to go near"The Rose of America" again. He had been wounded in his finest feelings.There had been a moment, when Mr. Goble had given him the choice betweenhaving the piece rewritten and cancelling the production altogether, whenhe had inclined to the heroic course. But for one thing Mr. Pilkingtonwould have defied the manager, refused to allow his script to be touched,and removed the play from his hands. That one thing was the fact that, upto the day of the dress-rehearsal, the expenses of the production hadamounted to the appalling sum of thirty-two thousand eight hundred andfifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents, all of which had to come out of Mr.Pilkington's pocket. The figures, presented to him in a neatly typewrittencolumn stretching over two long sheets of paper, had stunned him. He hadhad no notion that musical plays cost so much. The costumes alone had cometo ten thousand six hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty cents, andsomehow that odd fifty cents annoyed Otis Pilkington as much as anythingon the list. A dark suspicion that Mr. Goble, who had seen to all theexecutive end of the business, had a secret arrangement with the costumerwhereby he received a private rebate, deepened his gloom. Why, for tenthousand six hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty cents you coulddress the whole female population of New York State and have a bit leftover for Connecticut. So thought Mr. Pilkington, as he read the bad newsin the train. He only ceased to brood upon the high cost of costuming whenin the next line but one there smote his eye an item of four hundred andninety-eight dollars for "Clothing." Clothing! Weren't costumes clothing?Why should he have to pay twice over for the same thing? Mr. Pilkingtonwas just raging over this, when something lower down in the column caughthis eye. It was the words:--

  Clothing .... 187.45

  At this Otis Pilkington uttered a stifled cry, so sharp and soanguished that an old lady in the next seat, who was drinking a glassof milk, dropped it and had to refund the railway company thirty-fivecents for breakages. For the remainder of the journey she sat with oneeye warily on Mr. Pilkington, waiting for his next move.

  This adventure quieted Otis Pilkington down, if it did not soothe him.He returned blushingly to a perusal of his bill of costs, nearly everyline of which contained some item that infuriated and dismayed him."Shoes" ($213.50) he could understand, but what on earth was "Academy.Rehl. $105.50"? What was "Cuts ... $15"? And what in the name ofeverything infernal was this item for "Frames," in which mysteriousluxury he had apparently indulged to the extent of ninety-four dollarsand fifty cents? "Props" occurred on the list no fewer than seventeentimes. Whatever his future, at whatever poor-house he might spend hisdeclining years, he was supplied with enough props to last hislifetime.

  Otis Pilkington stared blankly at the scenery that flitted past thetrain windows. (Scenery! There had been two charges for scenery!"Friedmann, Samuel ... Scenery ... $3711" and "Unitt and Wickes ...Scenery ... $2120"). He was suffering the torments of the ruinedgamester at the roulette-table. Thirty-two thousand eight hundred andfifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents! And he was out of pocket tenthousand in addition from the cheque he had handed over two days agoto Uncle Chris as his share of the investment of starting Jill in themotion-pictures. It was terrible! It deprived one of the power ofthought.

  The power of thought, however, returned to Mr. Pilkington almostimmediately, for, remembering suddenly that Roland Trevis had assuredhim that no musical production, except one of those elaborategirl-shows with a chorus of ninety, could possibly cost more thanfifteen thousand dollars at an outside figure, he began to think aboutRoland Trevis, and continued to think about him until the train pulledinto the Pennsylvania Station.

  For a week or more the stricken financier confined himself mostly tohis rooms, where he sat smoking cigarettes, gazing at Japanese prints,and trying not to think about "props" and "rehl." Then, gradually, thealmost maternal yearning to see his brain-child once more, which cannever be wholly crushed out of a young dramatist, returned tohim--faintly at first, then getting stronger by degrees till it couldno longer be resisted. Otis Pilkington, having instructed his Japanesevalet to pack a few simple necessaries in a suit-case, took a cab tothe Grand Central Station and caught an afternoon train for Rochester,where his recollection of the route planned for the tour told him "TheRose of America" would now be playing.

  Looking into his club on the way, to cash a cheque, the first personhe encountered was Freddie Rooke.

  "Good gracious!" said Otis Pilkington. "What are you doing here?"

  Freddie looked up dully from his reading. The abrupt stoppage of hisprofessional career--his life-work, one might almost say--had leftFreddie at a very loose end; and so hollow did the world seem to himat the moment, so uniformly futile all its so-called allurements,that, to pass the time, he had just been trying to read the _NationalGeographic Magazine_.

  "Hullo!" he said. "Well, might as well be here as anywhere, what?" hereplied to the other's question.

  "But why aren't you playing?"

  "They sacked me! They've changed my part to a bally Scotchman! Well, Imean to say, I couldn't play a bally Scotchman!"

  Mr. Pilkington groaned in spirit. Of all the characters in his musicalfantasy on which he prided himself, that of Lord Finchley was his pet.And he had been burked, murdered, blotted out, in order to make roomfor a bally Scotchman.

  "The character's called 'The McWhustle of McWhustle' now!" saidFreddie sombrely.

  The McWhustle of McWhustle! Mr. Pilkington almost abandoned his tripto Rochester on receiving this devastating piece of information.

  "He comes on in Act One in kilts!"

  "In kilts! At Mrs. Stuyvesant van Dyke's garden-party! On LongIsland!"

  "It isn't Mrs. Stuyvesant van Dyke any longer, either," said Freddie."She's been changed to the wife of a pickle manufacturer."

  "A pickle manufacturer!"

  "Yes. They said it ought to be a comedy part."

  If agony had not caused Mr. Pilkington to clutch for support at theback of a chair, he would undoubtedly have wrung his hands.

  "But it _was_ a comedy part!" he wailed. "It was full of the subtlest,most delicate satire on Society. They were delighted with it atNewport! Oh, this is too much! I shall make a strong protest! I shallinsist on these parts being kept as I wrote them! I shall.... I mustbe going at once, or I shall miss my train." He paused at the door."How was business in Baltimore?"

  "Rotten!" said Freddie, and returned to his _National GeographicMagazine_.

  Otis Pilkington tottered into his cab. He was shattered by what he hadheard. They had massacred his beautiful play and, doing so had noteven made a success of it by their own sordid commercial lights.Business at Baltimore had been rotten! That meant more expense,further columns of figures with "frames" and "rehl." in front of them!He staggered into the station.

  "Hey!" cried the taxi-driver.

  Otis Pilkington turned.

  "Sixty-five cents, mister, if _you_ please! Forgetting I'm not yourprivate shovoor, wasn't you?"

  Mr. Pilkington gave him a dollar. Money--money! Life was just one longround of paying out and paying out.

  II

  The day which Mr. Pilkington had selected for his visit to theprovinces was a Tuesday. "The Rose of America" had opened at Rochesteron the previous night, after a week at Atlantic City in its originalform and a week at Baltimore in what might be called its secondincarnation. Business had been bad in Atlantic City and no better inBaltimore, and a meagre first-night house at Rochester had given thepiece a cold reception, which had put the finishing touches to thedepression of the company in spite of the fact that the Rochestercritics, like those of Baltimore, had written kindly of the play. Oneof the maxims of the theatre is that "out-of-town notices don'tcount," and the company had refused to be cheered by them.

  It is to be doubted, however, if even crowded houses would havearoused much response from
the principals and chorus of "The Rose ofAmerica." For two weeks without a break they had been working underforced draught, and they were weary in body and spirit. The newprincipals had had to learn parts in exactly half the time usuallygiven for that purpose, and the chorus, after spending five weeksassimilating one set of steps and groupings, had been compelled toforget them and rehearse an entirely new set. From the morning afterthe first performance at Atlantic City, they had not left the theatreexcept for sketchy half-hour meals.

  Jill, standing listlessly in the wings while the scene-shiftersarranged the Second Act set, was aware of Wally approaching from thedirection of the pass-door.

  "Miss Mariner, I believe?" said Wally. "I suppose you know you lookperfectly wonderful in that dress? All Rochester's talking about it,and there is some idea of running excursion trains from Troy andUtica. A great stir it has made!"

  Jill smiled. Wally was like a tonic to her during these days ofoverwork. He seemed to be entirely unaffected by the generaldepression, a fact which he attributed himself to the happy accidentof being in a position to sit back and watch the others toil. But inreality Jill knew that he was working as hard as any one. He wasworking all the time, changing scenes, adding lines, tinkering withlyrics, smoothing over principals whose nerves had become strained bythe incessant rehearsing, keeping within bounds Mr. Goble's passionfor being the big noise about the theatre. His cheerfulness was due tothe spirit that was in him, and Jill appreciated it. She had come tofeel very close to Wally since the driving rush of making over "TheRose of America" had begun.

  "They seemed quite calm to-night," she said. "I believe half of themwere asleep."

  "They're always like that in Rochester. They cloak their deeperfeelings. They wear the mask. But you can tell from the glassy look intheir eyes that they are really seething inwardly. But what I cameround about was--(a)--to give you this letter...."

  Jill took the letter, and glanced at the writing. It was from UncleChris. She placed it on the axe over the fire-buckets for perusallater.

  "The man at the box-office gave it to me," said Wally, "when I lookedin there to find out how much money there was in the house to-night.The sum was so small that he had to whisper it."

  "I'm afraid the piece isn't a success."

  "Nonsense! Of course it is! We're doing fine. That brings me tosection (b) of my discourse. I met poor old Pilkington in the lobby,and he said exactly what you have just said, only at greater length."

  "Is Mr. Pilkington here?"

  "He appears to have run down on the afternoon train to have a look atthe show. He is catching the next train back to New York! Whenever Imeet him, he always seems to be dashing off to catch the next trainback to New York! Poor chap! Have you ever done a murder? If youhaven't, don't! I know exactly what it feels like, and it feelsrotten! After two minutes' conversation with Pilkington, I couldsympathize with Macbeth when he chatted with Banquo. He said I hadkilled his play. He nearly wept, and he drew such a moving picture ofa poor helpless musical fantasy being lured into a dark alley by thugsand there slaughtered that he almost had me in tears too. I felt likea beetle-browed brute with a dripping knife and hands imbrued withinnocent gore."

  "Poor Mr. Pilkington!'

  "Once more you say exactly what he said, only more crisply. Icomforted him as well as I could, told him all was for the best and soon, and he flung the box-office receipts in my face and said that thepiece was as bad a failure commercially as it was artistically. Icouldn't say anything to that, seeing what a house we've got to-night,except to bid him look out to the horizon where the sun will shortlyshine. In other words, I told him that business was about to buck upand that later on he would be going about the place with a sprainedwrist from clipping coupons. But he refused to be cheered, cursed mesome more for ruining his piece, and ended by begging me to buy hisshare of it cheap."

  "You aren't going to?"

  "No, I am not--but simply and solely for the reason that, after thatfiasco in London, I raised my right hand--thus--and swore an oath thatnever, as long as I lived, would I again put up a cent for aproduction, were it the most obvious cinch on earth. I'm gun-shy. Butif he does happen to get hold of any one with a sporting dispositionand a few thousands to invest, that person will make a fortune. Thispiece is going to be a gold-mine."

  Jill looked at him in surprise. With anybody else but Wally she wouldhave attributed this confidence to author's vanity. But with Wally,she felt, the fact that the piece, as played now, was almost entirelyhis own work did not count. He viewed it dispassionately, and shecould not understand why, in the face of half-empty houses, he shouldhave such faith in it.

  "But what makes you think so? We've been doing awfully badly so far."

  Wally nodded.

  "And we shall do awfully badly in Syracuse the last half of this week.And why? For one thing, because the show isn't a show at all atpresent. Why should people flock to pay for seats for what arepractically dress-rehearsals of an unknown play? Half the principalshave had to get up in their parts in two weeks, and they haven't hadtime to get anything out of them. They are groping for their lines allthe time. The girls can't let themselves go in the numbers, becausethey are wondering if they are going to remember the steps. The showhasn't had time to click together yet. It's just ragged. Take a lookat it in another two weeks! I _know_! I don't say musical comedy is avery lofty form of art, but still there's a certain amount of scienceabout it. If you go in for it long enough, you learn the tricks, andtake it from me that, if you have a good cast and some catchy numbersit's almost impossible not to have a success. We've got an excellentcast now, and the numbers are fine. I tell you--as I tried to tellPilkington, only he wouldn't listen--that this show is all right.There's a fortune in it for somebody. But I suppose Pilkington is nowsitting in the smoking-car of an east-bound train, trying to get theporter to accept his share in the piece instead of a tip!"

  If Otis Pilkington was not actually doing that, he was doingsomething like it. Sunk in gloom, he bumped up and down on anuncomfortable seat, wondering why he had ever taken the trouble tomake the trip to Rochester. He had found exactly what he had expectedto find, a mangled caricature of his brain-child playing to a househalf empty and wholly indifferent. The only redeeming feature, hethought vindictively, as he remembered what Roland Trevis had saidabout the cost of musical productions, was the fact that the newnumbers were undoubtedly better than those which his collaborator hadoriginally supplied.

  And "The Rose of America," after a disheartening Wednesday matinee anda not much better reception on the Wednesday night, packed its baggageand moved to Syracuse, where it failed just as badly. Then for anothertwo weeks it wandered on from one small town to another, up and downNew York State and through the doldrums of Connecticut, tacking to andfro like a storm-battered ship, till finally the astute and discerningcitizens of Hartford welcomed it with such a reception that hardenedprincipals stared at each other in a wild surmise, wondering if thesethings could really be: and a weary chorus forgot its weariness andgave encore after encore with a snap and vim which even Mr. JohnsonMiller was obliged to own approximated to something like it. Nothingto touch the work of his choruses of the old days, of course, butnevertheless fair, quite fair.

  The spirits of the company revived. Optimism reigned. Principalssmiled happily and said they had believed in the thing all along. Theladies and gentlemen of the ensemble chattered contentedly of a year'srun in New York. And the citizens of Hartford fought for seats, and,if they could not get seats, stood up at the back.

  Of these things Otis Pilkington was not aware. He had sold hisinterest in the piece two weeks ago for ten thousand dollars to alawyer acting for some client unknown, and was glad to feel that hehad saved something out of the wreck.