It was a curious figure that entered the room. The Scotsman was short,
thick-set, about fifty years old, with a round, bald head fringed with
white hair. He was dressed with an evident attempt at youthful
smartness, and dangled a small cane. Between his thick lips was the end
of a black cigar. His large face, portentous brows, and mild blue eyes
looked as if he had started as Falstaff and ended as a Scottish Hamlet.
MacNaughton bowed profoundly, and said in deep, measured tones, that were
reminiscent of blank verse:
“Good afternoon, gentlemen! I received your telegram yesterday, Mr.
Brainard. It found me at an unoccupied moment in my career, and I am
happy to place myself at your disposal.”
Farson grinned. He judged from his acquaintance with Broadway that the
unoccupied moments in the Scotsman’s career had been frequent of late
years, and that he had spent a good many of them in the outer offices of
theatrical managers. He wondered how his new employer, who seemed wide
awake enough to capture one fortune and make a second, had come to mix
himself up with this seedy actor.
“Good!” Brainard exclaimed genially, shaking MacNaughton’s hand. “This
is my secretary, Edward Farson—Ferris MacNaughton. Let us get to work at
once and see how we can spend the better part of half a million a year on
the theater!”
At the casual mention of this large sum of money, the old actor did a bit
of unpremeditated acting, displaying astonishment so genuine that it set
the secretary laughing. He recovered himself, and remarked in his
Shakespearian tones:
“One might do a good deal on even less!”
The three sat down about the table, and lighted fresh cigars. Brainard
presently drew a small, much worn note book from an inner pocket, and
began turning its leaves, reading thoughtfully from time to time:
“Item first—create an organization that will build and support theaters
in the chief cities of the United States—to be called in every instance
‘The People’s Theater.’
“Good!” the actor assented loudly. “I have always maintained that the
drama came originally from the ranks of the common people, and should be
the chief means of their education.”
The magazine man made a wry face. The “People” according to Broadway
were visitors from out of town who would pay two fifty apiece for the
“show”—any show. Brainard read on:
“Item second—no boxes and no reserved seats in the People’s Theaters.
Highest price of seats, one dollar, and free matinees on Saturdays.”
“You will need a million!” Farson murmured.
“I used to find it so hard to get a good seat when I wanted to go to the
theater,” Brainard explained. “Even when I had scooped together the
price, for some extraordinary occasion, I couldn’t get nearer than the
twelfth row. Every theater was always sold up to that row, no matter how
early in the day I got to the box office. I have an invention in mind
that will register every seat sold or given out, and show it on a
diagram, to put an end to the usual practice. But let us get to more
important matters!”
He read out different items:
“Exchange of the different companies in the organization—a college of
dramatic art—cafés in the theaters—libraries of dramatic
literature—open-air theaters in the suburbs and city parks, etc.”
“But,” the actor inquired sententiously, “what do you propose to give the
people in your theaters?”
“Plays, of course!” Brainard replied. “All sorts of plays that are worth
while, old and new!”
“Shakespeare, Ibsen, and Hauptmann,” the actor remarked voluptuously.
“Sophocles, Molière—”
“Hold on!” Farson put in. “Where will you get the people to sit through
that?”
“My dear young sir,” the actor retorted paternally, “the people love the
_best_. I have played the classics in every State in the Union to
enthusiastic audiences,—sometimes small.”
“You bet!” Farson murmured.
“But always enthusiastic!”
“We must have modern plays, too,” Brainard added.
“But all the modern plays are copyrighted, and the dramatists are under
contract to Einstein & Flukeheimer, and their brethren.”
“Then we’ll make our own playwrights,” Brainard replied placidly.
“Here’s one!” He tapped the younger man fraternally on the knee.
The secretary subsided.
“And the companies?” the Scotsman inquired. “They make the piece!”
“The very best actors, of course,” Brainard agreed enthusiastically.
“We’ll pay the highest salaries and give long contracts and
pensions—that’s all in the scheme. You will help us to organize the
parent company, Mac. I’ll give you a free hand.”
The old actor closed his eyes in a happy dream. He saw himself at last
as a metropolitan impresario, dealing magnificently with the “talent.”
Brainard read on, but before he had finished the note book—which
contained a remarkable mixture of detail and aspiration—dinner came up.
They talked as they ate, and they talked afterward as they sipped their
coffee and smoked. They became heady with enthusiasm, for Brainard’s
imperturbable optimism and faith in his idea were like drafts of Arizona
air, intoxicating to those who lived in lower altitudes.
The actor, mellowed by good food and good wine,—and more by the
confidence this new Croesus seemed to have in him,—discoursed almost
tearfully of aspirations and ambitions suppressed through long years that
were now within the possibility of realization. He had always wished to
devote his life to Ibsen and the great classics, he declared, but the box
office had prevented the fulfillment of his artistic ideals.
“I’m the box office now,” Brainard laughed, “and I am here to fulfill
ideals!” He picked up the note book again. “I had forgotten the college
of actors, for both sexes, which we must run in connection with the
enterprise. It will give free tuition, of course, and there will be
scholarships for promising pupils. You will have to look after that,
too, Mac.”
“Haven’t I been training lads and lassies who couldn’t speak the language
all my life?” the old Scotsman burred.
“We should recruit our road companies from the college,” Brainard
suggested.
“It will take a good deal of time to do all that,” Farson remarked.
“We’ve all the time in the world,” Brainard retorted confidently. “Make
a note of that, Mr. Secretary!”
So they talked on as men will talk, when it is still a matter of words
and not actions. Late in the evening, or rather early in the morning,
Brainard developed his plan for an outdoor theater in some beautiful
mountain spot, or on an island along the seacoast. It was a bit of fairy
fancy which he called the “Summer Festival.” Every summer, for a few
weeks in August, in some sylvan spot of great natural beauty, with a
background of lofty trees and cliffs, there would be held a dramatic
festival, where lovers of the art could resort to live for a time in the
atmosphere of Sophocles, Calderon, Molière, Goethe, Shakespeare.
“A kind of theatrical camp meeting,” the secretary jokingly named it.
“Exactly. Imagine an open-air theater built upon a cliff, with the blue
sea below, backed by thick trees and a wild forest park, where the
audience might stroll between the acts and after the performance. Think
what could be made of such a place!”
It was the final flash of Brainard’s vision, and they sat for some time
in silent contemplation of what was before them. At last the old actor
spoke in a husky voice:
“My boy, it is sublime! It has come almost too late for me. I cannot
walk your great stage and triumph in your triumph. My days are nearly
over, spent in miserable efforts to exist and not debase my noble art.
But I can help, and I pledge to you and to the People’s Theater all the
strength that is left in me.”
The old Scotsman’s eyes were moist with tears. Here was another whom the
great idea had touched and lifted to unexpected heights, Brainard thought
happily.
“You’ll have your chance to act, too,” Brainard remarked consolingly.
“What do you mean to do first?” the secretary demanded impatiently.
“Incorporate, and find an architect,” Brainard replied concisely.
“Another trust!”
“A beneficent trust.”
“What we need is publicity,” the young magazine man announced. “I’ll
look out for that!”
“What we all need now,” laughed Brainard, “is sleep. We’ve done enough
for one day.” For the early morning procession of drays had begun to
thunder over the pavements beneath the window. “And to-day I must engage
a tailor and consult with my banker.”
“Before we go,” Farson said, “let us drink to Aladdin and his sulfur
lamp! Here’s to Aladdin, the Sulfur King!”
They drank the toast, and another proposed by the actor:
“The American Drama!”
And a third which was scarcely intelligible to Farson, although the old
actor considered it quite suitable:
“To Melody!”
Then they separated. In this gay and careless fashion the plot was laid
for pouring half a million a year into the Sulfur King’s great Idea.