CHAPTER IV
ENTRY INTO THE THEATRICAL WORLD
I.
Once, on a short visit to London, Edward Henry had paid half a crown tobe let into a certain enclosure with a very low ceiling. This enclosurewas already crowded with some three hundred people, sitting andstanding. Edward Henry had stood in the only unoccupied spot he couldfind, behind a pillar. When he had made himself as comfortable aspossible by turning up his collar against the sharp winds thatcontinually entered from the street, he had peered forward, and seen infront of this enclosure another and larger enclosure also crowded withpeople, but more expensive people. After a blank interval of thirtyminutes a band had begun to play at an incredible distance in front ofhim, extinguishing the noises of traffic in the street. After anotherinterval an oblong space, rather further off even than the band,suddenly grew bright, and Edward Henry, by curving his neck, first toone side of the pillar and then to the other, had had tantalisingglimpses of the interior of a doll's drawing-room and of male and femaledolls therein.
He could only see, even partially, the interior half of thedrawing-room,--a little higher than the heads of the dolls,--because therest was cut off from his vision by the lowness of his own ceiling.
The dolls were talking, but he could not catch clearly what they said,save at the rare moments when an omnibus or a van did not happen to bethundering down the street behind him. Then one special doll had comeexquisitely into the drawing-room, and at the sight of her the fivehundred people in front of him, and numbers of other people perchedhidden beyond his ceiling, had clapped fervently and even cried aloud intheir excitement. And he, too, had clapped fervently, and had muttered"Bravo!" This special doll was a marvel of touching and persuasivegrace, with a voice--when Edward Henry could hear it--that melted thespine. This special doll had every elegance, and seemed to be in thehighest pride of youth. At the close of the affair, as this specialdoll sank into the embrace of a male doll from whom she had beenunjustly separated, and then straightened herself, deliciously andconfidently smiling, to take the tremendous applause of Edward Henry andthe rest, Edward Henry thought that he had never assisted at a triumphso genuine and so inspiring. Oblivious of the pain in his neck, and ofthe choking foul atmosphere of the enclosure, accurately described asthe pit, he had gone forth into the street with a subconscious notion inhis head that the special doll was more than human, was half divine.And he had said afterwards, with immense satisfaction, at Bursley: "Yes,I saw Rose Euclid in 'Flower of the Heart.'"
He had never set eyes on her since.
And now, on this day at Wilkins's, he had seen in the restaurant, and hesaw again before him in his private parlour, a faded and stoutish woman,negligently if expensively dressed, with a fatigued, nervous, wateryglance, an unnatural, pale-violet complexion, a wrinkled skin, and dyedhair; a woman of whom it might be said that she had escapedgrandmotherhood, if indeed she had escaped it, by mere luck--and he waspointblank commanded to believe that she and Rose Euclid were the sameperson.
It was one of the most shattering shocks of all his career, which,nevertheless, had not been untumultuous. And within hisdressing-gown--which nobody remarked upon--he was busy picking up andpiecing together, as quickly as he could, the shivered fragments of hisideas.
He literally did not recognise Rose Euclid. True, fifteen years hadpassed since the night in the pit! And he himself was fifteen yearsolder. But in his mind he had never pictured any change in Rose Euclid.True, he had been familiar with the enormous renown of Rose Euclid asfar back as he could remember taking any interest in theatricaladvertisements! But he had not permitted her to reach an age of morethan about thirty-one or two. Whereas he now perceived that even theexquisite doll in paradise that he had gloated over from his pit musthave been quite thirty-five--then....
Well, he scornfully pitied Rose Euclid. He blamed her for not havingaccomplished the miracle of eternal youth. He actually considered thatshe had cheated him. "Is this all? What a swindle!" he thought, as hewas piecing together the shivered fragments of his ideas into a newpattern. He had felt much the same as a boy, at Bursley Annual Wakesonce, on entering a booth which promised horrors and did not supplythem. He had been "done" all these years....
Reluctantly he admitted that Rose Euclid could not help her age. But,at any rate, she ought to have grown older beautifully, with charmingdignity and vivacity--in fact, she ought to have contrived to be old andyoung simultaneously. Or, in the alternative, she ought to havemodestly retired into the country and lived on her memories and suchmoney as she had not squandered. She had no right to be abroad. Atworst, she ought to have _looked_ famous. And, because her name andfame and photographs, as an emotional actress had been continually inthe newspapers, therefore she ought to have been refined, delicate,distinguished, and full of witty and gracious small talk. That she hadplayed the heroine of "Flower of the Heart" four hundred times, and theheroine of "The Grenadier" four hundred and fifty times, and the heroineof "The Wife's Ordeal" nearly five hundred times, made it incumbent uponher, in Edward Henry's subconscious opinion, to possess all the talentsof a woman of the world and all the virgin freshness of a girl. Whichshows how cruelly stupid Edward Henry was in comparison with theenlightened rest of us.
Why (he protested secretly), she was even tongue-tied!
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Machin," she said awkwardly, in a weak voice,with a peculiar gesture as she shook hands. Then, a mechanical nervousgiggle--and then silence.
"Happy to make your acquaintance, sir," said Mr. Seven Sachs, and thearch-famous American actor-author also lapsed into silence. But thesilence of Mr. Seven Sachs was different from Rose Euclid's. He was notshy. A dark and handsome, tranquil, youngish man, with a redoubtablesquare chin, delicately rounded at the corners, he strikingly resembledhis own figure on the stage; and, moreover, he seemed to regard silenceas a natural and proper condition. He simply stood, in a gracefulposture, with his muscles at ease, and waited.
Mr. Bryany, behind, seemed to be reduced in stature, and to have becomeapologetic for himself in the presence of greatness.
Still, Mr. Bryany did say something.
Said Mr. Bryany:
"Sorry to hear you've been seedy, Mr. Machin!"
"Oh, yes!" Rose Euclid blurted out, as if shot. "It's very good of youto ask us up here."
Mr. Seven Sachs concurred, adding that he hoped the illness was notserious.
Edward Henry said it was not.
"Won't you sit down, all of you?" said Edward Henry."Miss--er--Euclid--"
They all sat down except Mr. Bryany.
"Sit down, Bryany," said Edward Henry. "I'm glad to be able to returnyour hospitality at the Turk's Head."
This was a blow for Mr. Bryany, who obviously felt it, and grew evenmore apologetic as he fumbled with assumed sprightliness at a chair.
"Fancy your being here all the time!" said he, "and me looked for youeverywhere--"
"Mr. Bryany," Seven Sachs interrupted him calmly, "have you got thoseletters off?"
"Not yet, sir."
Seven Sachs urbanely smiled. "I think we ought to get them offto-night."
"Certainly," agreed Mr. Bryany with eagerness, and moved towards thedoor.
"Here's the key of my sitting-room," Seven Sachs stopped him, producinga key.
Mr. Bryany, by a mischance catching Edward Henry's eye as he took thekey, blushed.
In a moment Edward Henry was alone with the two silent celebrities.
"Well," said Edward Henry to himself, "I've let myself in for it thistime--no mistake! What in the name of common sense am I doing here?"
Rose Euclid coughed, and arranged the folds of her dress.
"I suppose, like most Americans, you see all the sights," said EdwardHenry to Seven Sachs, "the Five Towns is much visited by Americans.What do you think of my dressing-gown?"
"Bully!" said Seven Sachs, with the faintest twink
le. And Rose Euclidgave the mechanical nervous giggle.
"I can do with this chap," thought Edward Henry.
The gentleman in waiting entered with the supper menu.
"Thank Heaven!" thought Edward Henry.
Rose Euclid, requested to order a supper after her own mind, staredvaguely at the menu for some moments, and then said that she did notknow what to order.
"Artichokes?" Edward Henry blandly suggested.
Again the giggle, followed this time by a flush! And suddenly EdwardHenry recognised in her the entrancing creature of fifteen years ago!Her head thrown back, she had put her left hand behind her, and wasgroping with her long fingers for an object to touch. Having found atlength the arm of another chair, she drew her fingers feverishly alongits surface. He vividly remembered the gesture in "Flower of theHeart." She had used it with terrific effect at every grand emotionalcrisis of the play. He now recognised even her face!
"Did Mr. Bryany tell you that my two boys are coming up?" said she. "Ileft them behind to do some telephoning for me."
"Delighted!" said Edward Henry. "The more the merrier!"
And he hoped that he spoke true.
But her two boys!
"Mr. Marrier--he's a young manager. I don't knew whether you know him;very, very talented. And Carlo Trent."
"Same name as my dog," Edward Henry indiscreetly murmured; and his fancyflew back to the home he had quitted, and Wilkins's and everybody in itgrew transiently unreal to him.
"Delighted!" he said again.
He was relieved that her two boys were not her offspring. That at leastwas something gained.
"_You_ know--the dramatist," said Rose Euclid, apparently disappointedby the effect on Edward Henry of the name of Carlo Trent.
"Really!" said Edward Henry. "I hope he won't mind me being in adressing-gown."
The gentleman in waiting, obsequiously restive, managed to choose thesupper himself. Leaving, he reached the door just in time to hold itopen for the entrance of Mr. Marrier and Mr. Carlo Trent, who weretalking, with noticeable freedom and emphasis, in an accent which in theFive Towns is known as the "haw-haw," the "lah-di-dah," or the"Kensingtonian" accent.