CHAPTER XV.
The papers of that period are all agreed that the eminent actor, ArthurWantage, was never seen to more advantage than on the last night of thatparticular season. His _Voltaire_ had never been a more brilliantimpersonation. The irony, the cruelty of the character had rarely comeout more effectively; the ingenuity of the dialogue was displayed at itsbest.
Yet, as a matter of fact, Arthur Wantage, all that day and evening, wasin Orson Vane's house, subject to a curious mental and spiritual aphasiathat afterwards became a puzzle to many famous physicians.
The _Voltaire_ was Orson Vane.
It was the final triumph of Professor Vanlief's thaumaturgy. Vane wasnow in possession of the entire mental vitality sufficient for playingthe part of the evening; the lines, the every pose, came to himspontaneously, as if he were machinery moving at another's guidance. Thedetail of entering the theatre unobserved had been easy; it was dusk andhe was muffled to the eyes. Afterwards, it was merely a matter ofpigment and paints. His fingers found the use of the colors and powdersas easily as his mind held the words to be spoken. There was not asoul, in the company, in the audience, that did not not find the_Voltaire_ of that night the _Voltaire_ of the entire season.
Above the mere current of his speeches and his displayed emotions OrsonVane found a tide of exaltation bearing him on to a triumphant feelingof contempt for his audience. These sheep, these herdlings, thesecreatures of the fashion, how fine it was to fling into their faces thebitter taunts of a _Voltaire_, to see them take them smilingly,indulgently. They paid him his price, and he hated them for it. He feltthat they did not really understand the half of the play's delicatefinesse; he felt their appreciation was a sham, a pose, a bit of mummeryeven more contemptible than his own, since they paid to pose, while he,at least, had the satisfaction of their money.
The curtain-fall found him aglow with the splendor of his success. Thetwo personalties in him joined in a fever of triumph. He, Orson Vane,had been _Voltaire_; he would yet be all the other geniuses of history.He would prove himself the greatest of them all, since he could simulatethem all. A certain vein of petty cunning ran under the major emotion;Orson Vane laughed to think how he had despoiled Arthur Wantage of hisvery temperament, his art, his spirit. This same cunning admonished,too, the prompt return of Wantage's person, after the night was over, tothe Wantage residence.
The commotion "in front" brought Orson to a sense of the immediatemoment. The cries for a speech came over a crackling of hand-claps. Hewaited for several minutes. It was not well to be too complaisant withone's public. Then he gave the signal to the man at the curtain, andmoved past him, to the narrow space behind the lights. He bowed. It hadthe very air of irony, had that bow. It does not seem humanly possibleto express irony in a curving in the spine, a declension of the head, acertain pose of the hands, but Vane succeeded, just as Wantage had sooften succeeded, in giving that impression. The bow over, he turned towithdraw. Let them wait, let them chafe I Commuters were missing thelast trains for the night? So much the better! They would not forget himso easily.
When he finally condescended to stride before the curtain again, it wasa lift of the eyebrows, a little gesture, an air that said, quiteplainly: Really, it is very annoying of you. If I were not very graciousindeed I should refuse to come out again. I do so, I assure you, underprotest.
He gave a little, delicate cough, he lifted his eyes. At that the housebecame still, utterly still.
He began without any vocative at all.
"The actor," he said, "who wins the applause of so distinguished acompany is exceedingly fortunate. The applause of such a verydistinguished company--" he succeeded in emphasizing his phrase to thepoint where it became a subtle insult--"is very sweet to the actor. Itreconciles him to what he must take to be a breach of true art, theintroduction of his own person on the scene where he has appeared as animpersonator of character. Some actors are expected to make speechesafter their exertions should be over. I am one of those poor actors. Inthe name of myself, a poor actor, and the poor actors in my company, Imust thank this distinguished body of ladies and gentlemen for thepatience with which they have listened to Mr. O'Deigh's little trifle.It is, of course, merely a trifle, _pour passer le temps_. Next season,I hope, I may give you a really serious production. Mr. O'Deigh cablesme that he is happy such distinguished persons in such a critical townhave applauded his little effort. I am sure ever so many of you wouldrather be at home than listening to the apologies of a poor actor. For Ifeel I must apologize for presenting so inconsiderable a trifle. A meresummer night's amusement. I have played it as a sort of rest for myself,as preparation for larger productions. If I have amused you, I ampleased. The actors' province is to please. The poor actor thanks you."
He bowed, and the bewildered company who had heard him to the end,clapped their hands a little. The newspaper men smiled at one another;they had been there before. The old question of "Why does he do it?" nolonger stirred in them. They were used to Wantage's vagaries.
The newspapers of the following day had Wantage's speech in full. Thecritics wrote editorials on the necessity for curbing this player'sarrogance. The public was astonished to find that it had been insulted,but it took the press' word for it. Wantage had made that sort of thingthe convention; it was the fashion to call these curtain speeches aninsult, yet to invoke them as eagerly as possible. The widespreadadvertising that accrued to Wantage from this episode enabled hismanager to obtain, in his bookings for the following season, an evenhigher percentage than usual. To that extent Orson Vane's imitation ofan imitator benefited his subject. In other respects it left Wantage amere walking automaton.
It was fortunate that the closing time for Wantage's theatre was now on.There was no hitch in Vane's plan of transporting Wantage to his homequarters; the servants at the Wantage establishment found nothingunusual in their master having been away for a day and a night; he wastoo frequently in the habit, when his house displeased him in somedetail, to stay at hotels for weeks and months at a time; his householdwas ready for any vagary. Indisposition was nothing new with him,either; in reality and affectation these lapses from well-being were notinfrequent with the great player. The doctor told him he neededrest--rest and sea-air; there was nothing to worry over; he had beenworking too hard, that was all.
So the shell of what had been Wantage proceeded to a watering-place,while the kernel, now a part of Orson Vane, proceeded to astonish thetown with its doings and sayings.
Practice had now enabled Vane to control, with a certain amount ofconsciousness, whatsoever alien spirit he took to himself. Vigorous andalert as was the mumming temperament he was now in possession of, he yetcontrived to exert a species of dominance over it; he submitted to it inthe mode, the expression of his character, yet in the main-spring of hisaction he had it in subjection. He had reached, too, a plane from whichhe was able, more than on any of the other occasions, to enjoy themasquerade he knew himself taking part in. He realized, with acontemptuous irony, that he was playing the part of one who played manyparts. The actor in him seemed, intellectually, merely a personifiedpalimpsest; the mind was receptive, ready to echo all it heard, keen toreproduce traits and tricks of other characters.
He held in himself, to be brief, a mirror that reflected whatevercrossed its face; the base of that mirror itself was as characterless,as colorless, as the mere metal and glass. Superficialities were caughtwith a skill that was astonishing; little tricks of manner and speechwere reproduced to the very dot upon the i; yet, under all the raimentof other men's merely material attributes, there was no change of soulat all; no transformation touched the little ego-screaming soul of theactor.
The superficial, in the meanwhile, was enough to make the town gossipnot a little about the newest diversions of Orson Vane. He talked, now,of nothing but the theatre and the arts allied to it. He purposed doingsome little comedies at Newport in the course of the summer that was nowbeginning. He eyed all the smart women of his acquaintance with an airthat impli
ed either, "I wonder whether you could be cast for a girl Imust make love to," or, "You would be passable in _Prince Hal_ attire."At home, to his servants, Vane was abominable. When the dreadfulchampagne, that some impulse possessed him to buy of a Broadwayswindler, proved as flat as the Gowanus, his language to Nevins wasquite contemptible. "What," he shrieked, "do I pay you for? Tell methat! This splendid wine spoiled, spoiled, utterly unfit for a gentlemanto drink, and all by your negligence. It is enough to turn one's mind.It is an outrage. A splendid wine. And now--look at it!" As a conclusionhe threw the stuff in Nevins' face. Nevins made no answer at all. Hewiped the sour mess from his coat with the same air of apology that hewould have used had he spilt a glass himself. But his emotions were nonethe less. They caused him, in the privacy of the servants' quarters, todo what he had not done in years, to drop his h's. "It's the 'ost'splace," said Nevins, mournfully, "to entertain his guests, and notbully the butler." Which, as a maxim, was valid enough, save that, inthis special case, the guests had come to look upon Vane's treatment ofthe servants as part of the entertainment a dinner with him wouldprovide.
Another distress that fell to the lot of poor Nevins was the fact thathis master was become averse to the paying of bills. The profanity fellupon Nevins from both the duns and the dunned.
"The man from Basser's, Mr. Vane, sir," Nevins would announce, timidly."Can't get him to go away at all, sir."
"Basser's, Basser's? Oh--that tailor fellow. An impudent creature, toplague me so, when I do him the honor of wearing his coats; they fitvery badly, but I put up with that because I want to help the fellow on.And what is my reward? He pesters me, pesters me. Tell him--tell himanything, Nevins. Only do leave me alone; I am very busy, very nervous.I am going to write a comedy for myself. I have some water-colors topaint for Mrs. Carlos; I have a ride in the Park, and ever so many otherthings to do to-day, and you bother me with pestiferous tailors. Nevins,you are, you are--"
But Nevins quietly bowed himself out before he learned what new thing hewas in his master's eyes.
A malady--for it surely is no less than a malady--for attempting cuttingspeeches at any time and place possessed Vane. Shortsightedness wasanother quality now obvious in him. He knew you to-day, to-morrow helooked at you with the most unseeing eyes. His voice was the mostprominent organ in whatever room or club he happened to be; when hespoke none else could be intelligible. When he knew himself observed,though alone, he hummed little snatches to himself. His gait took on amincing step. There was not a moment, not a pose of his that had not itsforethought, its deliberation, its premeditated effect.
The gradual increase in the publicity that was part of the penalty ofbeing in the smart world had made approachment between the stage andsociety easier than ever before. Orson Vane's bias toward the theatredid not displease the modish. Rumors as to this and that heroine of aromantic divorce having theatric intentions became frequent. The gownsof actresses were copied by the smart quite as much as the smart set'sgowns were copied by actresses. The intellectual factor had never beenvery prominent in the social attitude toward the stage; it was nowfrankly admitted that good-looking men and handsome dresses were as muchas one went to the theatre for. Theatrical people had a wonderful claimupon the printer's ink of the continent; society was not averse toborrowing as much of that claim as was possible. Compliments wereexchanged with amiable frequence; smart people married stage favorites,and the stage looked to the smart for its recruits.
Orson Vane could not have shown his devotion to the mummeries of thestage at a better time. He gained, rather than lost, prestige.