The Old Adam: A Story of Adventure

by Arnold Bennett

  VII.

  Often during the brief night he gazed sleepily at the vague next bed andmused upon the extraordinariness of women's consciences. His wife sleptlike an innocent. She always did. It was as though she gently expiredevery evening and returned gloriously to life every morning. Thesunshiny hours between three and seven were very long to him, but it wasindisputable that he did not hear the clock strike six, which was, atany rate, proof of a little sleep to the good. At five minutes pastseven he thought he heard a faint rustling noise in the corridor, and hearose and tiptoed to the door and opened it. Yes, the Majestic had itsgood qualities! He had ordered that all the London morning daily papersshould be laid at his door as early as possible, and there the pile was,somewhat damp, and as fresh as fruit, with a slight odour of ink. Hetook 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, a veryimportant 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 President ofthe United States. Isabel had been christened the World-Circler, andthe special correspondents of the entire earth were gathered about hercarpeted cell. Hope still remained that she would reach London withinthe hundred days. An unknown adherent of the cause for which shesuffered had promised to give ten thousand pounds to that cause if shedid so. Furthermore, she was receiving over sixty proposals of marriagea day. And so on and so on! Most of this he gathered in an instantfrom the headlines alone. Nauseating!

  Another annoying item in the paper was a column and a half given to thefoundation-stone laying of the First New Thought Church, in Dean Street,Soho--about a couple of hundred yards from its original site. He hatedthe First New Thought Church as one always hates that to which one hasdone an injury.

  Then he found what he was searching for: "Regent Theatre. Production ofpoetical drama at London's latest playhouse." After all, it was wellsituated in the paper, on quite an important page, and there was over acolumn of it. But in his nervous excitation his eyes had missed it.His eyes now read it. Over half of it was given to a discussion of theDon Juan legend and the significance of the Byronic character ofHaidee--obviously written before the performance. A description of theplot occupied most of the rest, and a reference to the acting ended it."Miss Rose Euclid in the trying and occasionally beautiful part ofHaidee was all that her admirers could have wished" ... "Miss Cunninghamdistinguished herself by her diction and bearing in the small part ofthe Messenger." The final words were: "The reception was quitefavourable."

  "Quite favourable," indeed! Edward Henry had a chill. Good heavens,was not the reception ecstatically, madly, foolishly enthusiastic?"Why!" he exclaimed within, "I never saw such a reception!" It wastrue; but then he had never seen any other first night. He was shocked,as well as chilled. And for this reason: For weeks past all thenewspapers, in their dramatic gossip, had contained highly sympatheticreferences to his enterprise. According to the paragraphs, he was awondrous man, and the theatre was a wondrous house, the best of allpossible theatres, and Carlo Trent was a great writer, and Rose Euclidexactly as marvellous as she had been a quarter of a century before, andthe prospects of the intellectual-poetic drama in London so favourableas to amount to a certainty of success.

  In those columns of dramatic gossip there was no flaw in the theatricalworld. In those columns of dramatic gossip no piece ever failed, thoughsometimes a piece was withdrawn, regretfully and against the wishes ofthe public, to make room for another piece. In those columns ofdramatic gossip theatrical managers, actors, and especially actresses,and even authors, were benefactors of society, and therefore they weretreated with the deference, the gentleness, the heartfelt sympathy whichbenefactors of society 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. Itwas very severe on Carlo Trent, and very kind to the players, whom itregarded as good men and women in adversity--with particular laudationsfor Miss Rose Euclid and the Messenger. The next newspaper said theplay was a masterpiece, and would be so hailed in any country butEngland. England, however--! Unfortunately this was a newspaper whosepolitical opinions Edward Henry despised. The next newspaper praisedeverything and everybody, and called the reception tumultuouslyenthusiastic. And Edward Henry felt as though somebody, mistaking hisface for a slice of toast, had spread butter all over it. Even thepaper's parting assurance that the future of the higher drama in Londonwas now safe beyond question did not remove this delusion 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 had photographs of scenes and figures, but nothingimportant in the matter of criticism. The rest were "neither one thingnor the other," as they say in the Five Towns. On the whole, aninscrutable press, a disconcerting, a startling, an appetite-destroying,but not a hopeless press. The general impression which he gathered fromhis perusals was that the author was a pretentious dullard, an absolutecriminal, a genius; that the actors and actresses were all splendid andworked hard, though conceivably one or two of them had been setimpossible tasks--to wit, tasks unsuited to their personalities; that hehimself was a Napoleon, a temerarious individual, an incomprehensiblefellow; and that the future of the intellectual-poetic drama in Londonwas not a topic of burning actuality.... He remembered sadly thesuperlative-laden descriptions, in those same newspapers, of the theatreitself, a week or two back, the unique theatre in which the occupant ofevery seat had a complete and uninterrupted view of the whole of theproscenium opening. Surely that fact alone ought to have ensured propertreatment 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'd expect.Of course you know what a first-night audience always is. Too generous.And ours was, particularly. Miss April saw to that. She had the AzureSociety behind her, and she was determined to help Rose Euclid.However, I should say it was all right--I should say it was quite allright. 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 her togo. 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 lay inbed and watched with careless curiosity the rapid processes of Nellie'stoilette. He had his breakfast on the dressing-table (for he was not atWilkins's, neither at the Grand Babylon). Then he helped her to pack,and finally he accompanied her to Euston, where she kissed him withaffectionate common sense and caught the twelve five. He was relievedthat nobody from the Five Towns happened to be going down 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-consciously onthe platform. The white organ had a good heading: "Re-birth of theintellectual drama in London. What a provincial has done. Opinions ofthe leading men." Two columns altogether! There was, however, littlein the two columns. The leading men had practised a sagacious caution.They, like the press as a whole, were obviously waiting to see which waythe great elephantine public would jump. When the enormous animal hadjumped, they would all exclaim: "What did I tell you?" The othercritiques were colourless. At the end of the green critique occurre
d thefollowing sentence: "It is only fair to state, nevertheless, that theplay was favourably received by an apparently enthusiastic audience."

  "Nevertheless!" ... "Apparently!"

  Edward Henry turned the page to the theatrical advertisements.

  Theatrical advertisement]

  Unreal! Fantastic! Was this he, Edward Henry? Could it be still hismother's son?

  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.