“Don't go,” he said. “Look here, I saw Mit-ford in the lobby just now.
What the devil is he doing here?”
“Perhaps there's some other show on,” I suggested, miserably.
“I told you they were trying to double-cross me,” he said. “I know
perfectly well what he's here for. Fagan is trying to razz me into a
breakdown. Then he'll put Mitford in as Dunbar. But I tell you, I'll
play this thing in spite of hell and high water.”
He paced feverishly up and down, and I tried to ease his mind.
“By God, they sha'n't!” he cried. “I'll put this thing up to the author.
Where's Sampson?”
“He's not here. For heaven's sake, man, don't get in a state.
Everything's all right.”
“Everything's all right!” he repeated, bitterly. “Yes, everything's
lovely. Let's 'lift it into the domain of comedy'. But if you see Fagan,
tell him to keep away from me.”
I begged him to rest until dinner-time. I went into his room with him,
made him lie down on the bed, rang for a bottle of ice water, and left
him there. Then I went downstairs and wrote a couple of letters. I was
just leaving the hotel when I met Fagan coming in. He stopped me to ask
if I had taken care to put his name on the playbill as director. I
had. If the show was a flop, I at least wanted his name attached as a
participial cause.
I wandered uneasily about the busy streets until theatre time. I
couldn't have been more nervous if I had been going on the boards
myself. I spent part of the time prowling about trying to see how much
“Obedience” paper I could find on the billboards and in shop windows. I
stopped in at a lunchroom and had some supper. The place reminded me
of the little café in Jamaica where Sylvia and Edwards and I had eaten
together.
My mind was full of the picture of the two, and his face as he leaned
across the table toward her. I thought that I had never seen a couple
who so deserved happiness, or who had fought harder to earn it. What was
the subtle appeal in this play that made it react so strangely upon
him? The tragedy of Dunbar in the piece, the sacrifice of the poor,
well-meaning fellow whose virtue always seemed to turn and rend him, did
this echo some secret experience in his own life? I wondered whether
an actor's career was really the gay business I had conceived it.
It occurred to me that perhaps the actor's profession is doomed to
suffering, because it takes the most dangerous explosives in life and
plays with them. Love, ambition, jealousy, hatred, those are the things
actors deal with. You can't play with those without one of them going
off every now and then. They go off with a bang, and somebody gets hurt.
I suppose I'm sentimental. I wanted those two to win out. It seemed to
me that a defeat for their fine and honourable passion would be a defeat
for Love everywhere, and for all who believe in the worthy aspirations
of the heart. I don't suppose any press agent ever pondered more
generous philosophies than I did that night, over my lunch-counter
supper.
Time went so fast that it was after eight when I got to the theatre. I
went in and took a seat in the last row. The house, to my surprise, was
crowded. I could see Upton's big bald head, well down in front, beside
a massively carved lady, all bust and beads, whom I supposed to be Mrs.
Upton. The élite of Providence were out in force, for Brooks's name
is always a drawing card. Some of them, I feared, were going to be
disappointed. It is all very well to introduce a new Barrie or a new
Pinero to the playgoing public, but you've got to remember that it is
bound to be grievous for those who prefer the other sort of thing.
The curtain, of course, was late, and I gave a sigh of relief when I saw
it go up. Edwards, waiting carefully for the hush, had the house with
him in three speeches. I have never seen better work, before or since.
It was noticeable that at his first exit he got a bigger hand than
Brooks at his carefully prepared entrance. The only thing that seemed
to me out of the way was his extreme pallor. The silly ass, I said to
myself, he hasn't made himself up properly. Then it struck me that it
was probably a sound touch of realism, for certainly Dunbar would not be
described as a full-blooded creature. I had read the play carefully, and
had seen it in rehearsal; but I had never known how much there was in
it. Strangely enough, Edwards was the only one who showed no trace of
nervousness. All the others, even Brooks, seemed unaccountably at a loss
now and then, trampled on their lines, and smothered their points. At
first the house was inclined to applaud, but as the action tightened,
they hushed into the perfect and passionate silence that is the
playwright's dream. There were six curtains at the end of the first act.
I could tell by the tilt of old Upton's pink pate that he was in fine
spirits. I looked about for Fagan in the lobby, as I was keen to see how
he was taking it, but missed him in the arguing and shifting crowd.
By the time the third act was under way it was plain that we had a
sure-fire success. Novice as I was, I could read the signs when I
saw Upton scribbling telegrams at the box-office window in the second
intermission, and observed the face of Mr. Mitford. The usual slips that
always happen on first nights were there, of course. In the third act,
when Edwards had to take Sylvia in his arms, she seemed to trip and
almost fell; and I noticed that Brooks crossed the stage and helped her
off, which was not in the script; but these things were not marked by
most of the audience. Dunbar, you remember, makes his final exit several
minutes before the end of the third act. When he went off there was a
little stir among the audience--far more eloquent than applause would
have been. That beautiful delineation of a blundering high-minded
failure had made its appeal.
After Edwards's last exit I felt my way out, quietly, and went round
through the street and up the alley to the stage door. I wanted to be
the first to congratulate him on his splendid triumph. I did not want to
break in too soon, so I waited near the door until I heard the crash of
hands that followed the curtain. The canvas rose and fell repeatedly as
the players took their calls, while the house shook with applause. From
where I stood, by the switches and buttons on the control board, I could
see them lined up in the orange glare of the gutter, bowing and smiling.
There were cries of “Dunbar! Dunbar!” and a rumbling of feet in the
gallery. It is the only time I have ever seen an audience crowd down the
aisles and stand by the orchestra rail, applauding. Then I saw why they
lingered. Edwards had not taken his call.
The curtain fell again, and Cervaux, the stage manager, came running
off, the perspiration streaming down over his grease-paint.
“Christ!” he cried. “Where's that fool Edwards?”
As soon as the curtain finally shut off the house I could see the actors
turn to each other as though in dismay. Miss Cunningham came off, and I
ran to shake her hand. To my amazement she looked at me blankly, with a
dreadful face, and sat down on a trunk.
Brooks strode across the stage. “Where's Edwards?” he shouted, angrily.
“Tell him to take this call with me, the house is crazy.”
“Where's the author?” said someone. “They want the author, too.”
Several hurried upstairs to the men's dressing rooms, and I followed.
The door of number 3, on which Edwards's name was scrawled in chalk,
stood open. Cervaux stood stupidly on the sill. The room was empty.
“He's gone,” said Cervaux. “What do you know about that?”
We could still hear the tumult of the house.
“Take the curtain, Mr. Brooks,” said Cervaux. “Tell them he's ill.”