VI

'What will ye 'ave to eat? Eggs and bacon?'

'No, no!'

'Well, then, 'ave a chop?'

'No, no!'

'Ye must 'ave something.'

'A cup of tea, a slice of toast. I'm not hungry.'

'Well, ye are worse than a young lady for a happetite. Miss Massey 'as sent

you down these 'ere papers.'

The servant-girl laid the papers on the bed, and Hubert lay back on his

pillow, so that he might collect his thoughts. Stretching forth his hands,

he selected the inevitable paper.

'For those who do not believe that our English home life is composed

mainly, if not entirely, of lying, drunkenness, and conjugal infidelity,

and its sequel divorce, yester evening at the Queen's Theatre must have

been a sad and dismal experience. That men and women who have vowed to love

each other do sometimes prove false to their troth no reasonable man will

deny. With the divorce court before our eyes, even the most enthusiastic

believer in the natural goodness and ultimate perfectibility of human

nature must admit that men and women are frail. But drunkenness and

infidelity are happily not characteristic of our English homes. Then why,

we ask, should a dramatist select such a theme, and by every artifice of

dialogue force into prominence all that is mean and painful in an

unfortunate woman's life? Always the same relentless method; the cold,

passionless curiosity of the vivisector; the scalpel is placed under the

nerve, and we are called upon to watch the quivering flesh. Never the kind

word, the tears, the effusion, which is man's highest prerogative, and

which separates him from the brute and signifies the immortal end for which

he was created. We hold that it is a pity to see so much talent wasted, and

it was indeed a melancholy sight to see so many capable actors and

actresses labouring to----'

'This is even worse than usual,' said Hubert; and glancing through half a

column of hysterical commonplace, he came upon the following:--

'But if this woman had succeeded in reclaiming from vice the man who

unjustly divorced her, and who in his misery goes back to ask her

forgiveness for pity's sake, what a lesson we should have had! And, with

lightened and not with heavier hearts, we should have left the theatre

comforted, better and happier men and women. But turning his back on the

goodness, truth, and love whither he had induced us to believe he was

leading us, the author flagrantly makes the woman contradict her whole

nature in the last act; and, because her husband falls again, she, instead

of raising him with all the tender mercies and humanities of wifehood,

declares that her life has been one long mistake, and that she accepts the

divorce which the Court had unjustly granted. The moral, if such a word may

be applied to such a piece is this: "The law may be bad, but human nature

is worse."'

The other morning papers took the same view,--a great deal of talent wasted

on a subject that could please no one. Hubert threw the papers aside, lay

back, and in the lucid idleness of the bed his thoughts grew darker. It was

hardly possible that the piece could survive such notices; and if it did

not? Well, he would have to go. But until the piece was taken out of the

bills it would be a weakness to harbour the ugly thought.

There were, however, the evening papers to look forward to, and soon after

midday Annie was sent to buy all that had appeared. Hubert expected to find

in these papers a more delicate appreciation of his work. Many of the

critics of the evening press were his personal friends, and nearly all were

young men in full sympathy with the new school of dramatic thought. He read

paper after paper with avidity; and Annie was sent in a cab to buy one that

had not yet found its way so far north as Fitzroy Street. The opinion of

this paper was of all importance, and Hubert tore it open with trembling

fingers. Although more temperately written than the others, it was clearly

favourable, and Hubert sighed a sweet sigh of relief. A weight was lifted

from him; the world suddenly seemed to grow brighter; and he went to the

theatre that evening, and, half doubting and half confidently, presented

himself at the door of Montague Ford's dressing-room. The actor had not yet

begun to dress, and was busy writing letters. He stretched his hand

hurriedly to Hubert.

'Excuse me, my dear fellow; I have a couple of letters to finish.'

Hubert sat down, glancing nervously from the actor to the morning papers

with which the table was strewn. There was not an evening paper there. Had

he not seen them? At the end of about ten minutes the actor said,--

'Well, this is a bad business; they are terribly down on us--aren't they?

What do you think?'

'Have you seen the evening papers--_The Telephone_, for instance?'

'Oh yes, I've seen them all; but the evening papers don't amount to much.

Stiggins's article was terrible. I am afraid he has killed the piece.'

'Don't you think it will run, then?'

'Well, that depends upon the public, of course. If they like it, I'll keep

it on.'

'How's the booking?'

'Not good.' Montague Ford moved his papers absent-mindedly. At the end of a

long silence he said, 'Even if the piece did catch on, it would take a lot

of working up to undo the mischief of those articles. Of course you can

rely on me to give it every chance. I shan't take it out of the bills if I

can possibly help.'

'There is my _Gipsy_.'

'I have another piece ready to put into rehearsal; it was arranged for six

months ago. I only consented to produce your play because--well, because

there has been such an outcry lately about art.... Tremendous part for me

in the new piece... I'm sure you'll like it.'

The business did improve, but so very slowly that Hubert was afraid Ford

would lose patience and take the play out of the bills. But while the fate

of the play hung in the balance, Hubert's life was being rendered

unbearable by duns. They had found him out, one and all; to escape being

served was an impossibility; and now his table was covered with summonses

to appear at the County Court. This would not matter if the piece once took

the public taste. Then he would be able to pay every one, and have some

time to rest and think. And there seemed every prospect of its catching on.

Discussions regarding the morality of the play had arisen in the

newspapers, and the eternal question whether men and women are happier

married or unmarried had reached its height. Hubert spent the afternoon

addressing letters to the papers, striving to fan the flame of controversy.

Every evening he listened for Rose's footstep on the stairs.--How did the

piece go?--Was there a better house? Money or paper?--Have you seen the

notice in the ----?--First-rate, wasn't it?--That ought to do some

good.--I've heard there was a notice in the ----, but I haven't seen it.

Have you?--No; but So-and-so saw the paper, and said there was nothing in

it. And, do you know, I hear there's going to be a notice in _The Modern

Review_, and that So-and-so is writing it.

Every post brought newspapers; the room was filled with newspapers--all

kinds of newspapers--papers one has never heard of,--French papers, Welsh

papers, North of England papers, Scotch and Irish papers. Hubert read

columns about himself, anecdotes of all kinds,--where he was born, who were

his parents, and what first induced him to attempt writing for the stage;

his personal appearance, mode of life, the cut of his clothes; his

religious, moral, and political views. Had he been the plaintiff in an

action for criminal libel, greater industry in the collection and the

fabrication of personal details could hardly have been displayed.

But at these articles Hubert only glanced; he was interested in his piece,

not in himself, and when Annie brought up _The Modern Review_ he tore it

open, knowing he would find there criticism more fundamental, more

searching. But as he read, the expression of hope which his face wore

changed to one of pain pitiful to look upon. The article began with a

sketch of the general situation, and in a tone of commiseration, of

benevolent malice, the writer pointed out how inevitable it was that the

critics should have taken Mr. Price, when _Divorce_ was first produced, for

the new dramatic genius they were waiting for. 'There comes a moment,' said

this caustic writer, 'in the affairs of men when the new is not only

eagerly accepted, but when it is confounded with the original. Wearied by

the old stereotyped form of drama, the critics had been astonished by a

novelty of subject, more apparent than real, and by certain surface

qualities in the execution; they had hailed the work as being original both

in form and in matter, whereas all that was good in the play had been

borrowed from France and Scandinavia. _Divorce_ was the inevitable product

of the time. It had been written by Mr. Price, but it might have been

written by a dozen other young men--granting intelligence, youth, leisure,

a university education, and three or four years of London life--any one of

a dozen clever young men who frequent West End drawing-rooms and dabble in

literature might have written it. All that could be said was that the play

was, or rather had been, _dans le mouvement_; and original work never is

_dans le mouvement_. _Divorce_ was nothing more than the product of certain

surroundings, and remembering Mr. Price's other plays, there seemed to be

no reason to believe that he would do better. Mr. Price had tried his hand

at criticism, and that was a sure sign that the creative faculty had begun

to wither. His critical essays were not rich nor abundant in thought, they

were not the skirmishing of a man fighting for his ideas, they were not

preliminary to a great battle; they were at once vague and pedantic,

somewhat futile, _les ébats d'un esprit en peine_, and seemed to announce

a talent in progress of disintegration rather than of reconstruction.

'Sometimes the critic's phrases seemed wet with tears; sometimes,

abandoning his tone of commiseration, he would assume one of scientific

indifference. The phenomenon was the commonest. There were dozens of Hubert

Prices in London. The universities and the newspapers, working singly and

in collaboration, turned them out by the dozen. And the mission of these

men of intelligent culture seemed to be to _poser des lapins sur la jeune

presse_. Each one came in turn with his little volume of poems, his little

play, his little picture; all were men of "advanced ideas"; in other words,

they were all _dans le mouvement_. There was the rough Hubert Price, who

made mild consternation in the drawing-room, and there was the

sophisticated Hubert Price, who cajoled the drawing-room; there was the

sincere and the insincere, and the Price that suffered and the Price that

didn't. Each one brought a different _nuance_, a thousand infinitesimal

variations of the type, but, considered merely in its relation to art, the

species may be said to be divided into two distinct categories. In the

first category are those who rise almost at the first bound to a certain

level, who produce quickly, never reaching again the original standard,

dropping a little lower at each successive effort until their work becomes

indistinguishable from the ordinary artistic commercialism of the time. The

fate of those in the second category is more pathetic; they gradually

wither and die away like flowers planted in a thin soil. Among these men

many noble souls are to be found, men who have surrendered all things for

love of their art, and who seemed at starting to be the best equipped to

win, but who failed, impossible to tell how or why. Sometimes their failure

turns to comedy, sometimes to tragedy. They may become refined, delicate,

elderly bachelors, the ornaments of drawing-rooms, professional

diners-out--men with brilliant careers behind them. But if fate has not

willed that they should retire into brilliant shells; if chance does not

allow them to retreat, to separate themselves from their kind, but

arbitrarily joins them to others, linking their fate to the fate of others'

unhappiness, disaster may and must accrue from the alliance; honesty of

purpose, trueness of heart, deep love, every great, good, and gracious

quality to be found in nature, will not suffice to save them.'

The paper dropped from his hands, and he recollected all his failures.

'Once I could do good work; now I can do neither good work nor bad. Were I

a rich man, I should collect my scattered papers and write songs to be sung

in drawing-rooms; but being a poor one, I must--I suppose I must get out.

Positively, there is no hope,--debts on every side. Fate has willed me to

go as went Haydon, Gerard de Nerval, and Maréchal. The first cut his

throat, the second hanged himself, and the third blew out his brains.

Clearly the time has come to consider how I shall make my exit. It is a

little startling to be called upon so peremptorily to go.'

In this moment of extreme dejection it seemed to Hubert that the writer of

the article had told him the exact truth. He refused to admit the plea of

poverty. It was of course hard to write when one is being harassed by

creditors. But if he had had it in him, it would have come out. The critic

had very probably told him the truth. He could not hope to make a living

out of literature. He had not the strength to write the masterpiece which

the perverse cruelty of nature had permitted him only to see, and he was

hopelessly unfit for journalism. But in his simple, wholesome mind there

was no bent towards suicide; and he scanned every horizon. Once again he

thought of his uncle. Five years ago he had written, asking him for the

loan of a hundred pounds. He had received ten. And how vain it would be to

write a second time! A few pounds would only serve to prolong his misery.

No; he would not drift from degradation to degradation.

He only glanced at the letter which Annie had brought up with the copy of

_The Modern Review_. It was clearly a lawyer's letter. Should he open it?

Why not spare himself the pain? He could alter nothing; and in these last

days---- Leaving the thought unfinished, he sought for his keys; he went to

his box, unlocked it, and took out a small paper package. Of the fifty

pounds he had received from Ford about twenty remained: he had been poorer

before, but hardly quite so hopeless. He scanned every horizon--all were

barred. The thought of suicide, and with it the instinctive shrinking from

it, came into his mind again. Suppose he took, that very night, an overdose

of chloral? He tried to put the thought from him, and returned, a little

dazed and helpless, to his chair. Had the critic in _The Modern Review_

told him the truth? Was he incapable of earning a living? It seemed so.

Above all, was he incapable of finishing _The Gipsy_ as he intended? No;

that he felt was a lie. Give him six months' quiet, free from worry and all

anxiety, and he would do it. Many a year had passed since he had enjoyed a

month of quiet; and glancing again at the letter on the table, he thought

that perhaps at that very moment a score of gallery boys were hissing his

play. Perhaps at that very moment Ford was making up his mind to announce

the last six nights of _Divorce_. At a quarter to twelve he heard Rose's

foot on the stairs. He opened the door.

'How did the piece go to-night?'

'Pretty well.'

'Only pretty well? Won't you come in for a few minutes?... So the piece

didn't go very well to-night?'

'Oh yes, it did. I've seen it go better; but----'

'Did you get a call?'

'Yes, after the second act.'

'Not after the third?'

'No. That act never goes well. Harding came behind; I was speaking to him,

and he said something which struck me as being very true. Ford, he said,

plays the part a great deal too seriously. When the piece was first

produced, it was played more good-humouredly by indifferent actors, who let

the thing run without trying to bring out every point. Ford makes it as

hard as nails. I think those were his exact words.'