The reading of the play took place on the Monday morning following, and
was an exceedingly formal and dignified function. The principal players
came prepared to be politely interested, while some of the lesser minds
were actually curious to taste the quality of the play as a piece of
writing.
As there was no greenroom in the Westervelt, the reading took place on
the open stage, which was bleak and draughty. The company sat in a
funereal semicircle, with the author, the star, and the manager in a
short line facing them. All the men retained their overcoats, for the
morning was miserably raw, and at Helen's positive command kept their
heads covered; and the supernumerary women sat shivering in their
jackets. Helen was regal in a splendid cloak of sable, otherwise there
was little of the successful actress in her dress. At her suggestion a
box-scene was set around them to keep off at least a part of the
draught, and under these depressing conditions the reading proceeded.
Douglass was visibly disheartened by the surroundings, but set manfully
to work, and soon controlled the attention of all the players except
two, who made it a boast that they had never read a play or listened to
one. "I am interested only in me lines, me boy," said one of them.
"And your acting shows it," replied Douglass, with quiet sarcasm, and
proceeded to the second act.
"You read that with greater power here than to me," said Helen. "I wish
we could give it the same unity and sweep of expression as we act it."
She addressed the company in her calm, clear voice: "I hope you will all
observe carefully Mr. Douglass's reading. He is giving us most valuable
advice in every inflection."
Her attitude towards her company was admirable in its simplicity and
reserve. It was plain that she respected their personalities and
expected the same high courtesy from them. Some of the men were of the
kind who say "My deah" to every woman, and "My deah boy" to the most
casual acquaintance--vain, egotistical, wordy, and pompous; but one
glance from Helen was sufficient to check an over-familiar hand in
mid-air. The boldest of them did not clap her on the shoulder but once.
The reading passed to a rather enthusiastic finish, and Douglass then
said: "I have read the play to you carefully, because I believe--_I
know_--that an intelligent rendition of your individual parts is
impossible without a clear knowledge of the whole drama. My theories of
a play and its representation are these: As an author, I see every
detail of a scene as if it were a section of life. I know where all my
people are at each moment of time, and their positions must be
determined by the logic of the picture without any reference to those
who wish to hold the centre of the stage. In a certain sense you are
only different-colored pigments in my hands, to be laid on to form a
unified painting. You must first of all learn to subordinate yourselves
to the designs of the author. I know this sounds harsh--seems to reduce
you to a very low level of intelligence; but, as a matter of fact, the
most highly gifted of our actors to-day are those who are able to do
this very thing--to carry in their minds a conception of the unity of a
scene, never thrusting their personalities through it or out of it. I
mention these points because I intend to assist in the rehearsals, and I
don't want to be misunderstood."
Helen interposed a word: "I need not say that I consider this a very
powerful play--with that opinion you all agree, I am sure--but I want
to say further that Mr. Douglass has the right to demand of each of us
subordination to the inner design of his work. I am personally very glad
always to avail myself of the author's criticism and suggestion. I hope
you will all feel the same willingness to carry out Mr. Douglass's
scenes as he has written them. Mr. Saunders, will you please give out
the parts and call a rehearsal for to-morrow at ten o'clock sharp?"
At this point all rose. Saunders, a plain little man, highly pleased
with his authority, began to bustle about, bellowing boisterously: "Here
you are now--everybody come letter-perfect to-morrow. Sharp at ten. No
lagging."
The players, accustomed to his sounding assumption of command, paid no
attention other than to clutch their rolls of type-written manuscript.
Each withdrew into the street with an air of haste.
As Helen received her portion Saunders said: "Here, Miss Merival, is a
fat part--must be yours. Jee-rusalem the golden! I'd hate to tackle that
rôle."
Douglass was ready to collar the ass for his impudent tone, but Helen
seemed to consider it no more than the harmless howl of a chair sliding
across the floor. She was inured to the old-time "assistant
stage-manager."
Turning to Douglass, she said, "Do you realize, Mr. Author, that we are
now actually begun upon your play?"
"No, I do not. I confess it all seems a make-believe--a joke."
"You'll not think it a joke at the end of the week. It's terribly hard
work to put on a big piece like this. If I seem apathetic in my part I
beg you not to worry. I must save myself all I can. I never begin to act
at rehearsal till I have thought the business all out in my mind. But
come, you are to lunch with us in honor of the first rehearsal, and it
is late."
"It seems a deplorable thing that you must come every morning to this
gloomy and repellent place--"
"Ah! this is a part of our life the public knows nothing of. They all
come to it--the divine Sarah, Duse--none are exempt. The glamour of the
foot-lights at night does not warm the theatre at eleven of the
morning."
"I see it does not," he answered, lightly; but in reality he felt that
something sweet and something regal was passing out of his conception of
her. To see her even seated with these commonplace men and women
detracted even from her glory, subjected her to the same laws. It was a
relief to get out into the gay street--to her carriage, and to the hotel
where the attendants hovered about her as bees about their queen.
She was in high spirits all through the luncheon, and Douglass was
carried out of his dark gravity by her splendid vitality, her humor, and
her hopefulness.
"All you need is a hearing," she said. "And you shall have that. Oh, but
there is a wilderness of work before us! Can you design the scenes? I
like to do that. It's like playing with doll-houses. I'll show you how.
We'll leave the financial side of it to you, Hugh," she said, to her
brother. "Come, Mr. Playwright," and they set to work with paste and
card-board like a couple of children, and soon had models of all the
sets. They seemed childish things indeed, but Helen was mistress of even
the mechanical side of the stage, and these paste-pot sketches were of
the greatest value to the scene-painter and the carpenter.
V
These three weeks of rehearsal formed the happiest time Douglass had
ever known, for all things conspired to make each day brim with mingled
work and worship. First of all, and above all, he was permitted to meet
Helen each day, and for hours each day, without fear of gossip and
without seeking for an excuse.
Each morning, a little before ten, he left his room and went directly to
the theatre to meet the company and the manager. The star, prompt as a
clock, arrived soon after, and Douglass, beforehand, as a lover, was
always there to help her from her carriage and to lead the way through
the dark passage to the stage, where the pompous little Saunders was
forever marshalling his uneasy vassals in joyous exercise of
sovereignty.
Helen was happy as a child during these days, and glowing with new ideas
of "business" and stage-setting. "We will spare no work and no expense,"
she said, buoyantly, to Mr. Westervelt, her manager. "We have a drama
worthy of us. I want every one of Mr. Douglass's ideas carried out."
The manager did not know, as Douglass did, that some of the ideas were
her own, and so took a melancholy view of every innovation.
"You can't do that," he gloomily repeated. "The public won't stand for
new things. They want the old scenes rehashed. The public don't want to
think; it wants to laugh. This story is all right for a book, but won't
do for a play. I don't see why you quit a good thing for a risk like
this. It is foolish and will lose money," he added, as a climax.
"Croak, you old raven--you'll be embarrassed when we fill your
money-box," she replied, gayly. "You should have an ideal, Mr.
Westervelt."
"An ideal. What should I do with that?"
Like most men, Douglass knew nothing about gowns in their constituent
parts, but he had a specially keen eye for the fitting and beautiful in
a woman's toilet, and Helen was a constant delight to him because of the
distinction of her dresses. They were refined, yet not weakly
so--simple, yet always alluring. Under the influence of her optimism
(and also because he did not wish to have her apologize for him) he drew
on his slender bank-account for funds to provide himself with a
carefully tailored suit of clothes and a new hat.
"How well you are looking!" she said, in soft aside, as he met her one
morning soon after. "Your hat is very becoming."
"I am made all over new _inside_--so I hastened to typify the change
exteriorly. I am rejoiced if you like me in my 'glad rags,'" he
replied.
"You are really splendid," she answered, with admiring fervor. "Let us
hurry through to-day; I am tired and want a spin in the park."
"That is for you to say," he answered.
"You are never tired," she sighed. "I wish I had your endurance."
"It is the endurance of desperation. I am staking all I have on this
venture." Then, in low-toned intensity, he added: "It hurts me to have
you forced to go over and over these lines because of the stupidity of a
bunch of cheap little people. Why don't you let me read your part?"
"That would not be fair," she answered, quickly--"neither to them nor to
you. No, I am an actress, and this is a part of my life. We are none of
us exempt from the universal curse."
"Royleston is our curse. Please let me kick him out the stage-door--he
is an insufferable ass, and a bad actor besides."
"He is an ass, but he can act. No, it's too late to change him now.
Wait; be patient. He'll pull up and surprise you at the final
rehearsal."
At four o'clock they were spinning up Fifth Avenue, which resounded with
the hoof-strokes of stately horses, and glittered with the light of
varnished leather. The rehearsal was put far behind them. The day was
glorious November, and the air sparkling without being chill. A sudden
exaltation seized Helen. "It certainly is a beautiful world--don't you
think so?" she asked.
"I do now; I didn't two weeks ago," he replied, soberly.
"What has brought the change?"
"You have." He looked at her steadily.
She chose to be evasive. "I had a friend some years ago who was in the
deeps of despair because no one would publish her book. Once she had
secured the promise of a real publisher that he would take it she was
radiant. She thought the firm had been wondrously kind. They made thirty
thousand dollars from the sale of her book. I am selfish--don't you
think I'm not--I'm going to make fame and lots of money on your play."
"I hope you may, for am I not to share in all your gold and glory? I
have greater need of both than you. You already have all that mortal
could desire. I don't believe I've told you what I called you before I
met you--have I?"
"No; what was it?" Her eyes widened with interest.
"'The glittering woman.'"