CHAPTER IX
THE FIRST NIGHT
I.
It was upon an evening in June--and a fine evening, full of theexquisite melancholy of summer in a city--that Edward Henry stood beforea window, drumming thereon as he had once, a less experienced man withhair slightly less gray, drummed on the table of the mighty and arrogantSlosson. The window was the window of the managerial room of the RegentTheatre. And he could scarcely believe it, he could scarcely believethat he was not in a dream, for the room was papered, carpeted andotherwise furnished. Only its electric light fittings were somewhathasty and provisional, and the white ceiling showed a hole and a bunchof wires, like the nerves of a hollow tooth, whence one of EdwardHenry's favourite chandeliers would ultimately depend.
The whole of the theatre was at least as far advanced toward completionas that room. A great deal of it was more advanced; for instance theauditorium, foyer, and bars, which were utterly finished, so far asanything ever is finished in a changing world. Wonders, marvels, andmiracles had been accomplished. Mr. Alloyd, in the stress of the job,had even ceased to bring the Russian ballet into his conversations. Mr.Alloyd, despite a growing tendency to prove to Edward Henry by authenticanecdote about midnight his general proposition that women as a sextreated him with shameful unfairness, had gained the high esteem ofEdward Henry as an architect. He had fulfilled his word about thoseproperties of the auditorium which had to do with hearing andseeing--in-so-much that the auditorium was indeed unique in London. Andhe had taken care that the clerk of the Works took care that the builderdid not give up heart in the race with time.
Moreover he had maintained the peace with the terrible London CountyCouncil, all of whose inspecting departments seemed to have secretlydecided that the Regent Theatre should be opened, not in June as EdwardHenry had decided but at some vague future date toward the middle of thecentury. Months earlier Edward Henry had ordained and announced thatthe Regent Theatre should be inaugurated on a given date in June, at thefull height of splendour of the London season, and he had astounded thetheatrical world by adhering through thick and thin to that date, andhad thereby intensified his reputation as an eccentric; for the oldestinhabitant of that world could not recall a case in which the opening ofa new theatre had not been promised for at least three widely differentdates.
Edward Henry had now arrived at the eve of the date, and if he hadarrived there in comparative safety, with a reasonable prospect ofavoiding complete shame and disaster, he felt and he admitted that thecredit was due as much to Mr. Alloyd as to himself. Which onlyconfirmed an early impression of his that architects were queerpeople--rather like artists and poets in some ways, but with a basis ofbricks and mortar to them.
His own share in the enterprise of the Regent had in theory beenconfined to engaging the right people for the right tasks andsituations; and to signing checks. He had depended chiefly upon Mr.Marrier, who, growing more radiant every day, had gradually developedinto a sort of chubby Napoleon, taking an immense delight in detail andin choosing minor hands at round-sum salaries on the spur of the moment.Mr. Marrier refused no call upon his energy. He was helping Carlo Trentin the production and stage-management of the play. He dried the tearsof girlish neophytes at rehearsals. He helped to number the stalls. Heshowed a passionate interest in the tessellated pavement of theentrance. He taught the managerial typewriting girl how to makeafternoon tea. He went to Hitchin to find a mediaeval chair requiredfor the third act, and found it. In a word he was fully equal to thepost of acting manager. He managed! He managed everything andeverybody except Edward Henry, and except the press-agent, a functionarywhose conviction of his own indispensability and importance was sosincere that even Marrier shared it, and left him alone in hisBismarckian operations. The press-agent, who sang in musical comedychorus at night, knew that if the Regent Theatre succeeded, it would behis doing and his alone.
And yet Edward Henry, though he had delegated everything, had yet founda vast amount of work to do; and was thereby exhausted. That was why hewas drumming on the pane. That was why he was conscious of a foolishdesire to shove his fist through the pane. During the afternoon he hadhad two scenes with two representatives of the Libraries (so calledbecause they deal in theatre-tickets and not in books) who had declinedto take up any of his tickets in advance. He had commenced an actionagainst a firm of bill posters. He had settled an incipient strike inthe "limes" department, originated by Mr. Cosmo Clark's views aboutlighting. He had dictated answers to seventy-nine letters of complaintfrom unknown people concerning the supply of free seats for the firstnight. He had responded in the negative to a request from a newspapercritic who, on the score that he was deaf, wanted a copy of the play.He had replied finally to an official of the County Council about thesmoke trap over the stage. He had replied finally to another official ofthe County Council about the electric sign. He had attended to a newcuriosity on the part of another official of the County Council aboutthe iron curtain. And he had been almost rude to still another officialof the County Council about the wiring of the electric light in thedressing-rooms. He had been unmistakably and pleasurably rude inwriting to Slossons about their criticisms of the lock on the door ofLord Woldo's private entrance to the theatre. Also he had arranged withthe representative of the Chief Commissioner of Police concerning thecarriage regulations for "setting-down and taking-up."
And he had indeed had more than enough. His nerves, though he did notknow it, and would have scorned the imputation, were slowly giving way.Hence, really, the danger to the pane! Through the pane, in the dyinglight he could see a cross-section of Shaftesbury Avenue, and an agednewspaper lad leaning against a lamp-post and displaying a poster whichspoke of Isabel Joy. Isabel Joy yet again! That little fact of itselfcontributed to his exasperation. He thought, considering the importanceof the Regent Theatre and the salary he was paying to his press-agent,that the newspapers ought to occupy their pages solely with themetropolitan affairs of Edward Henry Machin. But the wretched Isabelhad, as it were, got London by the throat. She had reached Chicago fromthe West, on her triumphant way home, and had there contrived to bearrested, according to boast, but she was experiencing much moredifficulty in emerging from the Chicago prison than in entering it. Andthe question was now becoming acute whether the emissary of the militantSuffragettes would arrive back in London within the specified period ofa hundred days. Naturally, London was holding its breath. London willkeep calm during moderate crises--such as a national strike or the agonyof the House of Lords--but when the supreme excitation is achievedLondon knows how to let itself go.
"If you please, Mr. Machin--"
He turned. It was his typewriter, Miss Lindop, a young girl of somethirty-five years, holding a tea-tray.
"But I've had my tea once!" he snapped.
"But you've not had your dinner, sir, and it's half-past eight!" shepleaded.
He had known this girl for less than a month and he paid her fewershillings a week than the years of her age, and yet somehow she hadassumed a worshipping charge of him, based on the idea that he wasincapable of taking care of himself. To look at her appealing eyes onemight have thought that she would have died to insure his welfare.
"And they want to see you about the linoleum for the gallery stairs,"she added timidly. "The County Council man says it must be taken up."
The linoleum for the gallery stairs! Something snapped in him. Healmost walked right through the young woman and the tea-tray.
"I'll linoleum them!" he bitterly exclaimed, and disappeared.