"An' papa says," went on the adorable childish treble, "'at if your
play lasses till a mat'née, I--can--go--an'--see--it!"
"Bless your heart, so you shall, my baby," I laughed. "And if the play
lasses only a few minutes, I'll give you a 'mat'née' all by yourself.
Where's that kiss I was to have? I need it very much."
"Here 'tis. Here's fourteen an' 'leven." They came to me over the wire
in a succession of reports like the popping of tiny corks. "An' papa
says say good-by now, so I mus'. But I love you _very_ mush!"
"Good-by, darling. I love you very mush, too."
I turned from the telephone wonderfully cheered by the little talk,
but almost before I had hung up the receiver the bell rang again.
"Hello, May. If you've finished that impassioned love scene with which
you have kept the wire sizzling for the last half-hour I'd like to
utter a few calming words."
Bayard, a brilliantly successful playwright, was talking.
"Feel as if you were being boiled in oil, don't you?" was his cheery
beginning. "Feel as if you were being burned at the stake? Feel as if
you were being butchered to make a Roman holiday, and all that kind of
thing? But it's nothing to the way you're going to feel as you drive
to the theater and as you watch the curtain go up. However, keep a
stiff upper lip. Margaret and I will be in front, and Margaret says
you can have my chest to cry on immediately after the performance.
Good luck. Good-by."
Again, before I had left the room, the telephone bell recalled me. It
had been like this all day. I had begun to believe that it would
always be like this. Life had resolved itself into a series of
telephone talks, running through a strenuous but not unpleasant dream.
Every friend I had seemed determined to call me up and alternate rosy
good wishes with dark forebodings of disasters possible through no
fault of mine. The voice that came to me now was that of Arthur Locke,
the best actor and the most charming gentleman on the American stage.
"Good luck, Miss Iverson," he said, heartily. "I don't need to tell
you all my wife and I wish for you. But I want to give you a word of
warning about the critics. Don't let anything they do to-night disturb
you. They've all got their bag of tricks, you know, and they go
through them whether they like the play or not. For example"--his
beautiful voice took on a delicious quality of sympathetic
amusement--"Haskins usually drops off to sleep about the middle of
the second act. The audience is always immensely impressed by this,
and men and women exchange glances and hushed comments over it. But it
doesn't mean anything. He wakes up again. He slept through my entire
second act last year, and gave me an excellent notice the next
morning--to show his gratitude, I suppose. Allen usually leaves during
the middle of the third act, gathering up his overcoat with a weary
sigh and marching down the middle aisle so that no one can miss his
dramatic exit. People are so used to it that they don't mind it much.
Northrup sits with his eyebrows up in his pompadour, as if pained
beyond expression by the whole performance, and Elkins will take all
your best comedy with sad, sad shakes of the head. To equalize this,
however, Webster will grin over your pathetic scenes. The best thing
to do is not to look at any of them. You know where their seats are,
don't you? Keep your eyes the other way."
"Thank you," I said, faintly. "I think I will."
Beyond question Mr. Locke's intentions had been friendly, but his
words had not perceptibly soothed my uneasy nerves. Before I walked
from my study into my living-room I stopped a moment to straighten my
shoulders and take a deep breath. My entire family had come on from
the West to attend the first-night performance of my play in New
York--my father, my sister Grace, my brother Jack, now a lieutenant in
the army, even my delicate mother, to whom journeys and excitement
were not among life's usual privileges. They were, I knew, having tea
together, and as I opened the living-room door I found my features
taking on the stiff and artificial smile I must have unconsciously
worn all day. A saving memory of George Morgan's words came to me in
time, and I banished the smile and soberly entered the room.
The members of the familiar group greeted me characteristically. My
mother, by whose chair I stopped for an instant, smiled up at me in
silence, patting my hand. My father drew a deep, inviting chair close
to the open fire; my brother brought me the cup of tea my sister
hurriedly prepared. Each beloved face wore a look of acute nervous
strain, and from the moment of my entrance every one talked at once,
on subjects so remote from the drama that it seemed almost improper to
introduce it by repeating the telephone conversations I had just had.
I did so, however, and in the midst of the badinage that followed,
Stella Merrick, our "star," was announced.
She lived across the Square from me, and she promptly explained as she
drank her tea that she had been "too nervous to stay at home." For her
comfort I repeated again the pregnant words of Mr. Locke concerning
the New York critics, and she nodded in depressed confirmation. During
the close association required by our rehearsals, and our months
together "on the road," I had not analyzed to my satisfaction the
contradictions of Miss Merrick's temperament. She loved every line of
my play and was admirable, if not ideal, in the leading rôle. She
fiercely resented the slightest suggestion from me, and combated
almost every change I wished to make in the text as my work revealed
itself to me more clearly during rehearsals and performances. She
seemed to have a genuine fondness for me and a singular personal
dependence. She was uneasy if I missed a rehearsal, and had been
almost panic-stricken when once or twice during our preliminary tour I
had missed a first night in an important city. She claimed the credit
of all merit in the play and freely passed on to me the criticisms.
The slightest suggestion made by the "cub reporter" on any newspaper
or the call-boy in any theater seemed to have more weight with her
than any advice of mine. To-day, under the soothing influence of tea,
fire-light, and the not too stimulating charms of family conversation,
we could see her tense nerves relax.
"I've been working mentally on the critics," she confessed, as she
passed her cup to Grace for the second time. "They're the only persons
I've been afraid of here in New York. I know we'll get our audience.
We always do. And if Miss Iverson will stand by us, and make a speech
when she's called for, we're sure to have a brilliant night."
She smiled her charming smile at me.
"But the New York critics are enough to appal the strongest soul," she
went on. "They're so unjust sometimes, so merciless, so fiendishly
clever in suggesting labels that stick to one through life. Do you
remember what they said about Miss Carew--that her play was so
feminine she must have done it with crochet needles? And they said
Nazimova looked like 'the cussed damosel,' and that Fairbanks had the
figure of Romeo and the face of the apothecary. Those things appal me.
So for the last few days I've been working on them mentally. I believe
in mental science, you know."
She paused for a moment and sat stirring her tea, a reflective haze
over the brilliance of her blue eyes.
"Some way," she resumed, "in the forty-eight hours since I've been
trying the power of mind on them I have ceased to be afraid of the
critics. I realize now that they cannot hurt us or our work. I know
they are our friends. I have a wonderfully kind feeling for them.
Why,"--her voice took on a seductive tenderness, her eyes dwelt on the
fire with a dreamy abstraction in their depths--"now I almost love the
damned things!" she ended, peacefully.
My brother Jack choked, then laughed irrepressibly. My sister and I
joined him. But my mother was staring at Miss Merrick with startled
eyes, while Miss Merrick stared back at her with a face full of sudden
consternation.
"Mrs. Iverson," she gasped, "I beg your pardon! I didn't know what I
was saying. I was--really--thinking aloud!"
Half an hour later I went with her to the elevator for a final word.
"I'm going straight to the theater," she told me. "Be early, won't
you? And come in to see me for a moment just before we begin."
She took my hands in a grip that hurt.
"We're going to win," she said, as she entered the elevator.
It was almost six. I had barely time to dress, to dine comfortably,
and to get to the theater before the curtain rose. At every stage of
my toilet the inexorable telephone called me; telegrams, too, were
coming from all parts of the country. My heart swelled. Whether I
proved to be a playwright or not, I had friends--many of them new
ones, made during the progress of this dramatic adventure. They would
not be too dearly bought, it seemed to me then, even by failure.
Dinner began as a silent meal. No one cared to talk. I recalled with a
sardonic smile the invitation of a society friend who had bought three
boxes for my first night and was giving a large dinner to precede the
play. She had expected me to grace that function and to sit in one of
her boxes; and she would never understand, I knew, why I refused to do
so. Godfrey Morris was coming at half after seven, with much pomp and
his new limousine, to take us to the theater. His mother and sister
were giving a box-party, but Godfrey was to sit with us in the body
of the house. I had frankly refused to have even him join us at
dinner. Four pairs of eyes fixed on me with loving sympathy during
that repast were, I realized, all I could endure. Even Godfrey's
understanding gaze would be the one thing too much--because it was so
understanding.
At the table the first few remarks of the family dropped and lay like
visible, neglected things before us. Then Grace and Jack entered upon
a discussion which they succeeded in making animated, and in which it
was not necessary that I should take part. It gave me an opportunity
to swallow naturally, to try to control the queer fluttering of my
heart and the sense of faintness, almost of nausea, that threatened to
overcome me. When I went to my room to put on my evening coat I looked
at myself in the long mirror that paneled the door. To my relief, I
looked quite natural--pale, beyond question, but I never had much
color. Of the iciness and rigidity of my hands and feet, of the panic
that shook the very soul of me, no one but myself need know.
I greeted Godfrey with both hands outstretched and a real smile. I had
seen him only once before since his return three days ago from Palm
Beach, where he had gone for his convalescence after his attack of
pneumonia. He had come back for my first night--he had made that very
clear--and for a blessed instant my panic vanished in the comfort of
his presence, of the sure grasp of his firm hands, the look in his
gray eyes. In the next instant it returned with cumulative force. I
could bear failure alone if I had to. Others, many others, had borne
it before me, and there was always the future in which one could try
again. I could bear it before my family, for they would never believe
that the fault of failure was mine; or before the eyes of all my
friends, for the theater would be full of them. But to bear it in the
presence of Godfrey, to have him see me fail--no, that was
unthinkable. I had reached the point where I must set my teeth, take
my nerves and my imagination in hand, and control them as I had once
controlled a team of frantic horses plunging toward a river-bank.
"A good deal like being executed in the public square, isn't it?"
asked Godfrey, gently. We were on our way up-town, and now over the
whole party a sudden silence fell. The illuminated sign of the big
Broadway theater was before us: the name of my play and that of our
"star" stared at us in letters of fire that took strange shapes before
my eyes. My own name modestly adorned the tablet on each side of the
entrance and the bill-boards in the lobby. The latter, when we entered
it, was banked with flowers. We were early, but the theater was
filling rapidly, and the usual throng of "first-nighters," equally
ready for an execution or a triumph, chatted on the sidewalk and
thronged the entrance. The house manager, his coat adorned with a
white carnation, greeted me as we passed in.
"Good luck, Miss Iverson," he said, cordially. "Lots of telegrams here
for you. Wait, I'll get them. Here, Fred, let's have Miss Iverson's
telegrams."
He checked the line at the box-office, thrust a hand through the
little window, and drew it out with a thick package of the yellow
envelopes. Godfrey held out his hand.
"I'll take care of them, if you wish," he said, and as I nodded he
dropped them into a pocket of his coat.
In silence we filed down the aisle to our seats. The boxes were
already filled; the body of the house filled as we watched it. On
every side were faces I knew and loved--Mrs. Morris and Grace with
Colonel and Mrs. Cartwell and Mr. and Mrs. Nestor Hurd; the Morgans,
with Kittie James and Maudie Joyce, who had come from Chicago for this
big night in my life; my friend of the rejected dinner and her
brilliantly jeweled guests; a deputation from the _Searchlight_ and my
magazine offices, which, it seemed to me, filled half the house.
Mollie Merk was there, and Billy Gibson and Mrs. Hoppen. The occasion
had the atmosphere of a reception. Every one knew every one else;
friends chatted with each other across the aisles and visited from
seat to seat. A few came to greet me. The majority mercifully waited,
knowing I would wish them to wait. Godfrey, sitting beside me, opened
my program and found the evening bill. As he did so I saw that his
hand shook. He followed the direction of my eyes, and his brown
cheeks flushed.
"I won't deny it," he whispered. "I'm as excited as you are; probably
more so."
Our eyes met. For a moment I almost forgot where we were--almost, but
not quite. Then Godfrey went on.
"But I'm not going to tell you about that now," he said, quietly. "Now
I'm thinking of nothing but the play."
I rose hurriedly. "I'm afraid I'm not," I admitted. "I forgot to go to
Miss Merrick as I promised."
He rose and went with me. From our places at the end of the left-side
aisle it was easy to slip back of the boxes and behind the scenes.
Godfrey waited in the wings while I tapped at the door of Miss
Merrick's dressing-room and entered. The place seemed very full.
Elman, the stage director, was in the group that surrounded the star,
and Peyton, our leading man, the latter dressed for his entrance. Both
came forward at once to shake hands. Miss Merrick, her eyes on the
mirror, following the last touches of her make-up, smiled at me
without turning. She was pale under her rouge, and her eyes seemed
twice their usual size, but they brightened as she saw me.
"I'm not going to say a word," I told her. "You know how I feel."
It was clear that she hardly heard me.
"Look at all these," she said. "Everybody's awfully kind."
She waved her hand, indicating the masses of flowers around her, the
litter of telegrams and notes.
"I'm actually frozen with fear," she went on. "But I always am. It
will pass off soon after we begin. Am I speaking in my usual voice? It
sounds like a whisper to me."
I reassured her and slipped away. Elman, Peyton, and her maid closed
round her again. I heard her describing her symptoms in detail as I
closed the door. I recognized them. They were also mine. The theater
was dark and the curtain just rising as Godfrey and I returned to our
seats. I was deeply thankful for the gloom that enveloped me. My
mother, sitting at my right, reached out gently and took my hand, but
I was hardly conscious of the action. For the moment there was nothing
in the world but the lighted stage on which my familiar characters, my
"dea', dea' dollies," as Maria Annunciata called them, were going
through their parts.
The house was very still. Every head in the great audience was turned
toward the stage, politely attentive, willing to be interested,
waiting to know if interest was there. A moment dragged by, another
and another--the longest of my life except the moments of the night,
three months ago, when I had awaited news from Godfrey's sick-room.
And now he was here beside me, superbly well, wholly himself again. At
the thought my heart melted. My mind swerved for a second from the
interest on which it was focused. I turned and glanced at him. He was
leaning forward in his seat, his gray eyes fixed unwinkingly on the
stage, his face pale under its coat of Palm Beach tan. For an instant
he did not know that I was glancing at him; then he turned, and our
eyes met in a look which taught me that of all in the crowded house he
understood best what this hour meant to me, because it meant as much
to him. It was as if we thought with one mind, responded with one
nervous system to the influence around us.
At the back of the house a little ripple began, grew, swelled into a
laugh. I drew my first deep breath, and felt it echoed by Godfrey at
my side. Again our eyes met. His sparkled in the dimness. Another
laugh rippled around us, swelled, reached the balconies, and rolled
down from there. I heard the whisper of silk and the creak of seats as
the members of my family at last settled comfortably into their seats.
"By Jove," whispered Godfrey, "you've got them! They're with you!"
For the time at least we had them. The big, kindly-disposed audience,
anxious to be pleased, met every comedy line with a quick response
which grew more generous as the moments passed. The entrance of the
star brought an ovation which temporarily checked the progress of the
play. Under it Miss Merrick's brilliant eyes lost their look of
strain. She touched her highest moments in the pathos of her entrance
scene. The audience was again very quiet. Around us handkerchiefs
rustled; Godfrey's eyes, meeting mine, were wet, and my heart turned
to water as I looked at them. That he should be moved like that by my
play--no, by _our_ play. Everything, I knew, was _ours_ henceforth.
The curtain went down and the lights flared up. The audience had been
amused, interested, touched. It called out the players and called them
out again, while the curtain rose and fell, rose and fell, and the
members of the company, smiling now and with all their panic gone,
came before the footlights singly and in groups. So far all was well.
Whatever happened later, we had had a triumphant first act. Already
the play was a third over. I had no fears now as to the success of the
second act. It was almost wholly comedy, and the comedy had "got over"
with a rush. But the third act--I was by no means sure of the third
act, where our manager's scene of hysteria, the fatal scene he had
introduced during the dress rehearsal, still claimed its deadly
moments.
My friends were coming up to greet me--George Morgan, Bayard, a dozen
of them, congratulatory, jubilant.
"Josephine can't cross the house yet to speak to you herself,"
explained George, airily, "because her nose isn't fit to be seen.
She's crying for joy over there. She'll get around after the next
act."
"You've got 'em," said Bayard, heartily. "They're _eating_ your comedy
and spoiling their complexions over your pathos. What more do you
want? Shall I call for the author now, or wait till the end of the
second act?"
My mother's gentle voice was in my ear.
"I'm so very happy, dear," she said, quietly.
I looked at my father. The nod he gave me, the expression in his eyes,
were the most beautiful things I had ever seen, except the tears in
Godfrey's eyes. Except--was it possible that at last I was putting
some one else before my father? It was possible. It was more than
possible; it was certain. For Godfrey himself was speaking now, and
nothing else had given me the thrill that came at the sound of the
quiet voice so close to my ear.
"May," he whispered. "Dear May, I'm so glad!"
That was all, but it was gloriously complete. And now the second act
was on, with the rollicking comedy of which I felt so sure. Around us
the audience rocked and laughed, breaking out frequently into little
whirlwinds of applause. The strain of rehearsals had had its effect on
my feeling for various members of the company, but to-night as I
watched them it seemed to me that I loved them all, for beyond doubt
each was giving all that was in him toward the winning of the success
that now seemed assured.
"Your hand is cold even through your glove," whispered Godfrey.
"That's the only sign you show of nervousness."
In the darkness he was holding it close.
"It's wonderful to be going through this with you," he whispered.
"It was wonderful of you to come back for it," I said.
He laughed, a little laugh of warm content.
"Do you think I could have kept away?" he asked.
I could not answer. The night was giving me too much. The curtain was
coming down, only to rise again and again and again as the house let
itself loose in the joyful tumult of friendly hearts that can at last
let friendly impulse have its way. Again and again the golden head of
Stella Merrick bent before the storm of applause that greeted her
repeated appearance. Again and again the members of the company
responded, singly and together. Again and again the light flashed up,
only to be lowered as the uproar continued.
And now they were calling for the author in an insistent, steady call,
from gallery, balcony, and orchestra--a call that tolerated no failure
to respond. My knees shook under me as I rose. To walk the length of
the house and out on that empty, waiting stage seemed impossible, but
perhaps I could say something here, standing in my place. For a second
I stood undiscovered; then, as if on a concerted signal, every head in
the house turned toward me. There was a whirl of greeting, of
applause, which my loyal friends led and prolonged.
"Speech! Speech! Speech!" The word came at me from every corner of the
theater. My knees steadied. My voice, as I began, sounded natural,
even casual. It seemed all at once the simplest matter in the world to
say a few words to this wonderful audience, so receptive, so
enthusiastic, so friendly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I began. "I shall not try to make a speech. No
author should attempt that on a first night. Many are called, and some
get up, but very few get over."
I had to stop. These charming people thought that remark was amusing,
too, and joyfully applauded it.
"But I am glad of this opportunity," I continued, "to express my deep
obligation to our manager, to Miss Merrick, and to the members of the
company for all they have done for my play. And in their behalf first,
and then in my own, I thank you for the wonderful reception you have
given us."
That was all. There was more applause. The lights flashed up, and from
every part of the theater the men and women I knew came to me for a
few friendly words. The reception took in my little family party and
Mr. Morris, whose presence among us seemed to interest but not to
surprise the big delegation from the _Searchlight_.
"Now," I whispered to him, as the curtain rose on the third act, "if
only everything goes well for half an hour more! But the least little
thing can wreck an act. If some one sneezes--"
"If any one sneezes during this act," whispered Godfrey, firmly,
"he'll never sneeze again."
"Perhaps a cat will run across the stage," I whispered, "or some one
in the audience will see a mouse."
Godfrey shook his head.
"This isn't that kind of an evening," he declared. "The gods are
giving their personal attention to it."
It seemed, indeed, that they were. The act went on as smoothly as silk
thread running through a shuttle. We had a few additional moments of
celebration at the end of it, when the curtain fell on an audience
that wiped its eyes over the penultimate line even while it laughed
over the last line. I went "behind" for a word of appreciation to Miss
Merrick and the company before I left the theater. The great bulk of
"T. B.," our manager, loomed huge in the star's dressing-room.
"Hello, Miss Iverson!" was his jocund greeting. "You can't always go
by the enthusiasm of a first-night audience, but I guess we've got a
play here that will run a year or two."
He shook hands, said something to Miss Merrick about photographs in
the morning, and swung away. Miss Merrick, emotional, almost
hysterical, fell upon my neck and kissed me with lips that left round
red spots on my cheeks. Every one was happy. At the front entrance
some of my friends were waiting. There was still one thing I wanted,
had to have, indeed, and I got it after I had torn open half a dozen
of my telegrams.
Our love, dear May, and our prayers for your success.