“I wouldn't let a man like Fagan stand between me and Dunbar,” he said.
“It's in the hands of the author now. You heard what he said. He put
Dunbar into the play, he's the only one who can take him out of it.”
The next morning Upton broke the news to me that I was to go out as
advance man. The opening was set for Providence, only ten days later.
There was to be a two-weeks' tour of three-night engagements, and I had
to arrange for the publicity, poster-printing, accommodations for the
company, and so on. This did not appeal to me very strongly, but I
scrambled together a lot of photographs, interviewed the cast as to
their preferences in hotel rooms, and set off. I got back a week later.
We were then only three days away from the opening. They were rehearsing
with the sets, Upton's telephone blonde told me, and I hurried round to
the Stratford to see how the scenic artist had done the job.
They had just knocked off for lunch when I got there, and at the stage
door I met Edwards coming out with Miss Cunningham. He looked very white
and tired.
“Hullo,” I said; “just in time to have lunch with me! Come on, we'll go
to Maxim's. I've still got some of Upton's expense money.”
“I've got to rush round to the modiste for a fitting,” said Miss
Cunningham. “The gowns are just finished. You take Morgan and give him a
good talking-to. He needs it.” I did not quite understand the appeal in
her eyes, but I saw that she wanted me to talk with Edwards alone. She
went toward Bryant Park, and we turned down to Thirty-eighth. Edwards
stood a moment at the corner looking after her.
“Sylvia says I'm a fool,” he said, wearily. “I don't know: most of us
are, one way or another.--You know I told you that I put my confidence
in the author.”
“Quite right,” I said. “I myself heard Sampson say he thought you were
corking.”
“Well, I wonder if he's double-crossing me?” said Edwards, slowly, as
though to himself.
“In what way?”
“Yesterday, when I was coming down to rehearsal, there was a tie-up of
some kind on the subway. The train stood still for a long time, and
then the lights went out. We stayed in the dark for I don't know how
long--everybody got nervous. It was pitch black, and awfully hot and
stuffy. The women began to scream. I felt pretty queer myself--you know
I haven't been well--and as we sat there I went off into a kind of doze
or something. Then, just as everybody was on the edge of a panic, the
lights came on and we went ahead. When we got to Times Square I think I
must have been a bit off colour, for the damned rehearsal went out of
my head entirely. Suddenly I realized I was in a drugstore drinking some
headache fizz when I was over an hour late at the theatre. My God! I
hustled down there as fast as I could go. Queer thing. I went in through
the stage door, and as I came round behind the set I heard voices on the
stage. They were rehearsing, of course. Naturally, they couldn't wait
all morning for me. But this is what I'm getting at. You know that scene
in the second act where I say to Brooks: _It's all very well for you to
say that. Ah, hah! I see! But suppose you had been in my place---_
“You know that's a turning point in the act. There's a particular
inflection I give that speech--the way I say the 'Ah, hah! I see!' that
makes the point clear to the audience and gets it over. Well, they were
rehearsing that scene, and from behind the canvas I heard that speech.
And what I heard was my own voice.”
“What on earth do you mean?” I said.
He hesitated. He was sitting, his lunch almost untasted, with one elbow
on the table and his forehead leaning on his hand. Under his long,
sinewy fingers I could see his brows tightened and frowning downward
upon his plate.
“Exactly what I say. It was my own voice. Or, if you prefer, Dunbar's
voice. I heard that speech uttered, tone for tone, as I had been saying
it. It was the precise accent and pitch of ironical comment which I had
thought appropriate for Dunbar at that point in the action. The sudden
change of tone, the pause, the placing of the emphasis--the words were
just as if they had come out of my own mouth. I stopped, instinctively.
I said to myself, has Fagan got someone else to play the part, and been
coaching him on the side? Someone who's been sitting in at rehearsals
and has picked up my conception of Dunbar? And at that moment I heard
Fagan sing out 'All right, folks, the carpenter wants to work on this
set. We'll quit until after lunch.'
“I tell you, I was staggered. If I was out, I was out, but they might
have been straight with me. It was a matter for the Equity, I thought. I
didn't want to chin it over with the others just then, and I heard them
coming off, so I slipped through the door that opens into the passage
behind the stage box. I meant to tell Fagan what I thought about it.
There was Sampson sitting in one of the boxes. He saw me, and got up. He
said: 'By Jove, Mr. Edwards, you were fine this morning. I've never seen
you do it so well. It was bully, all through. Keep it like that, and
you're the hit of the play.'
“I thought at first he was making fun of me. I was about to make some
sarcastic retort, when he put out his hand in the friendliest way, and
said:
“'I want to thank you for what you're doing for that part, and I know it
hasn't been easy. I've never seen anything so beautifully done, and just
want to tell you that if the play is a success it will be largely due to
you.'
“This, on the heels of the other, astounded me so that I didn't know
what to say. I made some automatic reply, and he left. I sat down in the
cool darkness of the box to rest, for I was feeling very seedy. My head
went round and round--touch of the sun, I dare say, or that foul air in
the crowded subway car. I was still there when they came back, an hour
later, for the afternoon rehearsal. I tried to talk to Sylvia about it,
but all she would say was that I ought to go to a doctor.”
“I think she's right,” I said. “Look here, have you had any sleep
lately?”
“You seem to have forgotten Dunbar's line,” he said. “'_There'll be
'plenty of time to sleep by and bye._'”
“For God's sake forget about Dunbar,” I said. “Man, dear, you're on the
tip of a nervous breakdown. Now listen. This is Friday. Dress rehearsal
to-morrow. Sunday you'll have all day off. Take Miss Cunningham and go
away into the country somewhere and rest. Put the damned play out of
your mind and give her a good time. You both need it.”