At twelve o’clock on the night that witnessed the production of the
tragedy, Lucian found himself one of a group of six men which had
gathered together in Harcourt’s dressing-room. There was a blue haze of
cigarette smoke all over the room; a decanter of whisky with syphons and
glasses stood on a table in the centre; most of the men had already
helped themselves to a drink. Lucian found a glass in his own hand, and
sipped the mixture in it he recognised the taste of soda, and remembered
in a vague fashion that he much preferred Apollinaris, but he said to
himself, or something said to him, that it didn’t matter. His brain was
whirling with the events of the night; he still saw, as in a dream, the
misty auditorium as he had seen it from a box; the stage as he had seen
it during a momentary excursion to the back of the dress-circle; the
busy world behind the scenes where stage-carpenters sweated and swore,
and the dust made one’s throat tickle. He recalled particular faces and
heard particular voices; all the world and his wife had been there, and
all the first-nighters, and all his friends, and he had spoken to a
great many people. They all seemed to swim before him as in a dream, and
the sound of their voices came, as it were, from the cylinder of a
phonograph. He remembered seeing Mr. Chilverstone and his wife in the
stalls--their faces were rapt and eloquent; in the stalls, too, he had
seen Sprats and Lord Saxonstowe and Mrs. Berenson; he himself had spent
some of the time with Haidee and Darlington and other people of their
set in a box, but he had also wandered in and out of Harcourt’s
dressing-room a good deal, and had sometimes spoken to Harcourt, and
sometimes to his business manager. He had a vague recollection that he
had faced the house himself at the end of everything, and had bowed
several times in response to cheering which was still buzzing in his
ears. The night was over.
He took another drink from the glass in his hand and looked about him;
there was a curious feeling in his brain that he himself was not there,
that he had gone away, or been left behind somewhere in the world’s mad
rush, and that he was something else, watching a semblance of himself
and the semblance’s surroundings. The scene interested and amused
whatever it was that was looking on from his brain. Harcourt, free of
his Greek draperies, now appeared in a shirt and trousers; he stood
before the mirror on his dressing-table, brushing his hair--Lucian
wondered where he bought his braces, which, looked at closely, revealed
a peculiarly dainty pattern worked by hand. All the time that he was
manipulating the brushes he was talking in disconnected sentences.
Lucian caught some of them: ‘Little cutting here and there--that bit
dragged--I’m told that _was_ a fine effect--very favourable indeed--we
shall see, we shall see!’--and he wondered what Harcourt was talking
about. Near the actor-manager, in an easy-chair, sat an old gentleman of
benevolent aspect, white-bearded, white-moustached, who wore a fur-lined
cloak over his evening-dress. He was sucking at a cigar, and his hand,
very fat and very white, held a glass at which he kept looking from time
to time as if he were not quite certain what to do with it. He was
reported to be at the back of Harcourt in financial matters, and he
blinked and nodded at every sentence rapidly spoken by the
actor-manager, but said nothing. Near him stood two men in cloaks and
opera-hats, also holding glasses in their hands and smoking
cigarettes--one of them Lucian recognised as a great critic, the other
as a famous actor. At his own side, talking very rapidly, was the sixth
man, Harcourt’s business-manager. Lucian suddenly realised that he was
nodding his head at this man as if in intelligent comprehension of what
he was saying, whereas he had not understood one word. He shook himself
together as a man does who throws drowsiness aside.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I--I don’t think I was paying attention. I don’t
know why, but I feel half-asleep.’
‘It’s the reaction,’ said Harcourt, hastily getting into his waistcoat
and coat. ‘I feel tired out--if I had my way there should be no such
thing as a first night--it’s a most wearing occasion.’
The famous critic turned with a smile.
‘Think of being able to lie in bed to-morrow with a sheaf of newspapers
on your counterpane!’ he said pleasantly.
Then somehow, chatting disjointedly, they got out of the theatre.
Harcourt and Lucian drove off in a hansom together--they were near
neighbours.
‘What do you think?’ asked Lucian, as they drove away.
‘Oh, I think it went all right, as far as one could judge. There was
plenty of applause--we shall see what is said to-morrow morning,’
answered Harcourt, with a mighty yawn. ‘They can’t say that it wasn’t
magnificently staged,’ he added, with complacency. ‘And everything went
like clockwork. I’ll tell you what--I wish I could go to sleep for the
next six months!’
‘I believe I feel like that,’ responded Lucian. ‘Well, it is launched,
at any rate.’
The old gentleman of the white beard and fur-lined cloak drove off in a
private brougham, still nodding and blinking; the actor and the critic,
lighting cigars, walked away together, and for some time kept silence.
‘What do you really think?’ said the actor at last. ‘You’re in rather a
lucky position, you know, in respect of the fact that the _Forum_ is a
weekly and not a daily journal--it gives you more time to make up your
mind. But you already have some notion of what your verdict will be?’
‘Yes,’ answered the critic. He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. ‘Well,’
he said, ‘I think we have heard some beautiful poetry, beautifully
recited. But I confess to feeling a certain sense of incongruity in the
attempt to mingle Greek art with modern stage accessories. I think
Damerel’s tragedy will read delightfully--in the study. But I counted
several speeches to-night which would run to two and three pages of
print, and I saw many people yawn. I fear that others will yawn.’
‘What would you give it?’ said the actor. ‘The other ran for twelve
months.’
‘This,’ said the critic, ‘may run for one. But I think Harcourt will
have to withdraw it within three weeks. I am bearing the yawns in
mind.’