For the time being it seemed that the superfluous Kitty had disappeared
from the scene. She made no sign, and no attempt was made to trace
her. Clara knew perfectly well that she was somewhere in the West End,
but in that small crowded area it was possible to avoid meeting.
People quickly fell into a groove and lived between a certain theatre,
a certain restaurant, and home, and the light theatre was almost
completely severed from the theatre which took itself so seriously.
The legitimate stage had nothing to do with the bastard frivolity of
the houses whose appeal was based on lingerie, pretty faces, and
shapely limbs.
As for Charles, he was once again oblivious. He visited Clara at the
flat, and had a painful scene with Freeland, who lashed out at him,
rolled out a number of hard words, such as 'blackguard,' 'selfish
beast,' etc., etc., but was nonplussed when Charles, not at all
offended, said quietly,--
'Have you finished?'
'No. What do you propose to do about it? The poor child has no
people. Julia and I are father and mother to her. In fact, I regard
her as my adopted daughter.'
'I should always let her do exactly as she wished,' said Charles.
'Will you leave her alone then?'
'Certainly.'
Freeland regarded that as a triumph, but Clara was furious with him for
interfering, and she scolded him until he promised that in future he
would not say a word.
'What are you going to do?' he asked.
'I need a holiday from Charles,' she said--a new idea to Freeland,
whose conception of love was besotted devotion--'and I am going to live
alone for a time.'
Out she went, and before the day was done she had found a furnished
apartment in the dingy region of narrow streets behind Leicester
Square, and for a time she was entirely absorbed in this new
acquisition. It was her own, her very own. It was at the top of the
house, and looked out over roofs and chimneys westward so that she had
the London sunset for comfort and companionship: more than enough,
sweeter intimacy than any she had yet found among human beings, whose
shallow business and fussy importance always hurt and exasperated
her.... More clearly than ever she knew that there was only Charles
and his work that mattered to her at all. She saw him occasionally and
knew that he was entirely happy. He wrote to her every day and his
plans were maturing famously. Lord Verschoyle was more and more
interested, and as his lordship's interest grew so there waxed with it
Charles's idea of his immense wealth. That worried Clara, who wanted
her genius to prove himself in order to command and not to crave
support. But Charles was elated with the success of his advertising
campaign, and at the growth of his prestige among the artists....
'Such a combination has never been known. We shall simply overwhelm
the public.'
Clara's answer to this was to see that his relations with Sir Henry
Butcher were not neglected. The explosion produced by Kitty's
intervention had split their efforts, so that Charles was now working
through Lord Verschoyle, she through Sir Henry Butcher, and once again
she was embarked upon a battle with Charles for the realisation of his
dreams--not upon paper, which perfectly satisfied him--but in terms of
life in which alone she could feel that her existence was honourable.
She kept a tight enough hold of Charles to see that he worked at _The
Tempest_, but, as she was no longer with him continually, she could not
check his delighted absorption in his committee. This was properly and
duly constituted. It had a chairman, Professor Laverock, and Mr Clott
acted also as its secretary in an honorary capacity, his emoluments
from Charles being more than sufficient for his needs. It met
regularly once a month in studios and drawing-rooms. The finest
unofficialised brains in London were gathered together, and nervous men
eyed each other suspiciously and anxiously until Charles appeared, with
Mr Clott fussing and moving round him like a tug round a great liner.
His presence vitalised the assembly; the suppressed idealism in his
supporters came bubbling to the surface. Poets whose works were
ignored by the great public, musicians whose compositions were ousted
by Germans, Russians, Frenchmen, and Poles from the concert-rooms of
London, dramatists whose plays were only produced on Sunday evenings,
art critics who had acclaimed Charles's exhibition, all in his presence
were conscious of a solidarity proof against all jealousy and
disappointment; Charles, famous in Paris, Berlin, Moscow, New York,
moved among them like a kindling wind.
He would arrive with his arms full of papers, while Mr Clott in a
little black bag carried the essential documents--minute-book, agenda,
suggestions, plans. For some months the Committee accomplished nothing
but resolutions to invite and co-opt other members, but it seemed
impossible to lure any really successful person into the net. No
actor-manager, no Royal Academician, no poet with a healthy circulation
could be found to give practical expression to his sympathy, though
admiration for Mr Mann's work and the high reputation he had won for
British Art on the Continent oozed from them all in letters of great
length, which were read to the Committee until its members, most of
them rather simple souls, were bewildered.
The accretion of Lord Verschoyle made a great difference. He attended
in person, a shy, elegant young man, educated at Eton, and in the
Guards for the gentle art of doing nothing. He owned a large area of
London, and his estates were managed by a board which he was not even
expected to attend, and he was a good young man. He wanted to spend
money and to infuriate his trustees, but he did not know how to do it.
Women bored him. He had a yacht, but loathed it, and kept it in
harbour, and only spent on it enough money to keep it from rusting
away. He maintained a stable, but would not bet or attend any other
meeting than Ascot. He had some taste in art, but only cared for
modern pictures, which he could buy for fifty or a hundred pounds.
Indeed he was much too nice for his altogether exceptional
opportunities for wasting money, for he loathed vulgarity, and the only
people who could tell him how to waste his wealth--stable-touts,
art-dealers, women of the West End--were essentially vulgar, and he
could not endure their society.... He had five houses, but all he
needed was an apartment of three rooms, and he was haunted and made
miserable by the idea, not without a fairly solid foundation, that
young women and their mammas wished to marry him for his money.... He
longed to know a young woman who had no mamma, but none ever came his
way. Society was full of mammas, and of ladies eager to push the
fortunes of their husbands and lovers. He was turned to as a man of
power, but in his heart he knew that no human being was ever more
helpless, more miserably at the mercy of his trustees, agents, and
servants.... He had been approached many times by persons interested
in plays, theatres, and schemes, but being that rare and unhappy
creature, a rich man with good taste, he had avoided them as hotly as
the mammas of Mayfair and Belgravia.
He met Charles at his exhibition and was introduced to him. Charles at
once bellowed at him at the top of his voice on the great things that
would be achieved through the realisation of his dreams, and Lord
Verschoyle had in his society the exhilarated sense of playing truant,
and wanted more of it. He was hotly pursued at the moment by Lady
Tremenheer, who had two daughters, and he longed ardently to disgrace
himself, but so perfect was his taste that he could not do it--in the
ordinary way. Charles was outrageous, but so famous as to carry it
off, and Verschoyle seized upon the great artist as the way of escape,
well knowing that art ranked with dissipation in the opinion of his
trustees. With one stone he could kill all his birds. He promised by
letter, being most careful to get his wicked indiscretion down in
writing, his whole-hearted support of Charles's scheme.
Charles thereupon drew up his scheme. Verschoyle's wealth disposed of
the most captious member of his committee, whose meetings now became
more awful and ceremonious than ever. Even so much assembled intellect
could not resist the wealth that through the generations had been
gathered up to surround the gentle personality of Horace Biningham,
Lord Verschoyle, who smiled benignantly upon the strange company and,
all unconscious of the devastating effect upon them of his money, was
most humbly flattered to be in the presence of so many distinguished
persons.
The tenth meeting of the committee was arranged to be the most
critical. Charles was to read and expound the scheme upon which he had
been at work for years. The meeting was to be held at his own house,
and for this occasion only he implored Clara to be present as hostess,
and so eager was she to share in the triumph of that side of his
activities that she consented and was the only woman present. With
Professor Laverock in the chair, Mr Clott read the minutes of the last
meeting, upon which, as nothing had happened, there was no comment.
Clara sat in a corner by the door and looked from face to face, trying
in vain to find in any something of the fire and eagerness that was in
her Charles's, who, radiant and bubbling over with confidence, sat at a
little table in the centre of the room with his papers in front of him,
two enormous candles on either side, and his watch in his hand.
After formalities, Professor Laverock called upon Mr Mann to read his
scheme to the committee.... Rarely can a room have contained so much
eager idealism, rarely can so many mighty brains have been keyed up to
take their tune from one.
Charles smoothed out his paper, shook back his hair, arranged the cuffs
which he always wore in his desire to be taken for an English
gentleman. His hearers settled themselves in their chairs. He began:--
'Gentlemen, we are all here concerned to make the theatre a temple of
art, always open with a welcome to every talent, from that of the
highest and most creative vision to that of the most humble and patient
craftsman's life.'
'Ah!' some one sighed contentedly.
'We cannot expect such a theatre either from actors or from commercial
persons who would be much better engaged in selling boots or soap....
In Germany art is honoured. Nietzsche, whom I acknowledge as my
compeer, is to be commemorated with an enormous stadium upon a hill.
In England we have turned away from the hill-top and are huddled
together in the valleys until beauty is lost and dreams are but aching
memories....'
Clara was irritated by this preamble. It was too much like the spirit
of Sir Henry Butcher. If only Charles had consulted her she would have
cut out this ambitious bombast, and brought him down to practical
detail.
'My proposal is that we should erect upon one of three suitable sites
in London a theatre which shall be at once a school and a palace of
art. There will be one theatre on the German model, and an outdoor
theatre on the plan of an arena in Sicily of which I have here sketches
and plans.'
'Is that quite suitable in the English climate?' asked Adolph
Griffenberg, a little Jewish painter.
'The disabilities of the English climate are greatly exaggerated,' said
Charles. 'There could be protection from wind and rain, if it were
thought necessary. There will be attached to the indoor theatre an
experimental stage to which I of course shall devote most of my
energies; then schoolrooms, a kitchen, a dining-room, a dancing-room, a
music-room, a wardrobe, three lifts and two staircases.'
'Isn't this too detailed for our present purpose?' asked Griffenberg.
'I merely wish to show that I am entirely practical,' retorted Charles.
'There will be every modern appliance upon the stage, several
inventions of my own, and an adjustable proscenium. The staff will
consist of myself, a dozen instructors in the various arts of the
theatre, and a larger number of pupils, who will be promoted as they
give evidence of talent and skill in employing it.'
So far attention had been keen and eager. Charles's happy vision of a
marble temple lit with the inward sun of vision and rosy with youth had
carried all before it. He warmed to his task, talked on as the candles
burned low, and at last came to the financial aspect of his proposal.
Griffenberg leaned forward, and Clara watched him apprehensively.
'I have estimated the cost as follows,' said Charles, now confident
that he had his hearers with him. 'I have put my estimate as low as
possible, so that we may know our minimum:--
The Outdoor Theatre . . . . . . . . L6,000
The Indoor Theatre . . . . . . . . . L15,000
To Machinery . . . . . . . . . . . . L4,000
To Salaries . . . . . . . . . . . . L1,500
My Own Salary . . . . . . . . . . . L5,000
Wardrobe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . L600
Ground rent . . . . . . . . . . . . Nominal
Musicians and music . . . . . . . . L600
Paint, materials, etc. . . . . . . . L400
Food for the birds and fishes . . . L25
There was a dead silence. One or two men smiled. Others stared.
Others pulled their noses or smoothed their hair. Griffenberg laughed
harshly and said,--
'Excuse me, Mr Mann. I didn't quite catch that last item.'
Charles who was entirely unaware of the changed atmosphere looked up
and repeated,--
'Food for the birds and fishes.... There must be beautiful birds
flying in the outdoor theatre. In the courtyard there must be
fish-ponds with rare fish....'
'We are not proposing to build a villa of Tiberius,' snapped
Griffenberg, who was deeply wounded. 'I cannot agree to a scheme which
includes birds and fishes.'
Clara was bristling with fury against Charles for being so childish,
and against Griffenberg for taking advantage of him. She knew that
Charles was in an ecstasy, and unable to cope with any practical point
they chose to raise. It would have been fair for Griffenberg to take
exception to his estimates, but not to the birds and fishes.... Her
sense of justice was so outraged that to keep herself from intervening
she slipped out of the room and gave vent to her fury in the darkness
of the passage.
The worst happened. The scheme was forgotten; the birds and fishes
were remembered.... Griffenberg asked rather insolently if Mr Mann
proposed to publish the scheme as it stood, and Charles, who did not
detect the insolence, said that he certainly intended to publish the
scheme and had indeed already sent a copy to the Press Association.
'As your own or as the Committee's scheme?'