The actor-manager

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Chapter I

There used to be, in the neighborhood of the Museum, an eating-house, of which the feature was a three-course dinner for sixpence. On a board in the doorway was inscribed "First-class Room Upstairs," and this was well worth visiting. Its true attraction, however, did not lie in its steaming soup, its colonial meat, nor its impregnable pastry, but in the study of its patrons. Eschewing the groundfloor, where, to the casual observer, the dirt of the diners obscured their interest, one found oneself among pale-faced girls in sage-green frocks of eccentric pattern, among young men with bilious bows and abundant hair. These were "art-students" — ^to use the comprehensive term by which the students of painting describe themselves — ^the fact was evident at a glance, before scrutiny discovered the

Roman Gallery written in charcoal on their fingers.

I

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A greasy coat, white at the left elbow, and frayed under the right cuff, confirmed the impression that its wearer was a hack from the Reading Room. Sometimes a reporter and his note-book might be recognized ; more frequent was the sight of a violincase, or a roll of songs. Occasionally a denizen of the foreign quarter behind Tottenham Court Road stumbled upon the establishment — ^to sigh for the forbidden cigarette, and renew his allegiance to the restaurants of Charlotte Street; now and again a stray shop-girl out of employment, or an excursionist up for the day, gaped at the costumes of the company — approving the cuisine and disdaining the clientele. A little woman with spectacles and dosecropped hair suggested mathematics; and a Pole, whose unkempt locks swept the grime on his velvet collar, left one in doubt whether to attribute to him operas or infernal machines.

On a certain winter afternoon, the room, usually so full, was deserted save by two persons. One was a man of about thirty; the other was a girl, five or six years younger. Though they had often met there, they were not acquaintances, and it might be seen that to-day each was at once interested and a shade embarrassed by the other's presence. When the waitress reappeared with pudding, the silence between them had not been broken, but the man, stealing another glance, saw that the girl was crying.

They were seated close together; the room contained three long tables, but two of them were bare, and the cloth extended but hi^lf-way down the third. The preparations for custom had been slight to-day at the eating-house, and of all its struggling frequenters— -of all its hopeful and its hopeless band — only these two apparently had had nowhere else to go. The attendant, who had returned to her chair behind the counter, contemplated them with an air of compassionate protest. The date was December the twenty-fifth.

He looked quickly away, out at the dreary street. He understood the tears that stood in his companion's eyes — if he had been a woman, his mood would have required the same relief. That was not his reflection, however; the thought of which he was suddenly conscious was that he wished the girl and he knew each other. He was alone, and had never experienced the ache of loneliness more strongly. In fancy he had been reliving his life, lingering at the milestones, and scenting afresh the fragrance of mornings passed away. He remembered Christmas at the Vicarage — ^had seen himself a child again in his father's church. The old man's face and white hair above the pulpit, and the laurel and crimson berries round the font, flashed close — ^seemed close enough for him to clasp them. He remembered his scholarship, his joy, the moment when his father's lips had trembled at the news; reviewed his boyhood at Harrow, and his confidence at Oxford. It was to be the Church then for him, too. He recalled the first touch^f indecision; the time when the cry of Art within him became insistent; the night when he announced the change in his intentions. Under the snow upon the cemetery his father lay now, beyond the reach of disappointments. Thank God the bond between them had never weakened! The long battle which was still unwon had been mentally ref ought since his meagre breakfast; and the sense of solitariness, the longing for sympathy, was acute as he stared through the window at the empty streets.

He spoke a second later:

"We're spared the outrage of a Christmas pudding made fashionable in a mould here I If a Christmas plum-pudding's not as round as a cannon-ball, it isn't a Christmas plum-pudding."

"No," she said. She sought for a continuation. "And it ought to be very big!" she added.

"With a sprig of holly and blue flames 1"

Momentarily he saw the Vicarage again. If Christmas were good for nothing else, it would serve to remind us we were once innocent and happy, and didn't know it; for everyone associates Christmas more vividly with his own childhood than with Christ's. The girl did not reply further ; she looked down at her plate. The man looked wistfully at the girl; and the attendant, with a smothered yawn, looked at the clock.

"I think I've seen you here^fore," said Oliphant. "I wonder they are open to-diyi I was half afraid I shouldn't get any dinner."

"It was the same with me — I am only in lodgings,

and " she shivered, and drew her cape more

closely round her shoulders.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"The fire isn't very Christmassy, is it? Do you know what I'm going to do when I get up? I'm going to walk round the Squares, and look into all the dining-rooms, where hateful rich people are having port and walnuts, and toasting themselves before the most expensive coal. I shall loathe them violently."

"And then?" said Oliphant, smiling.

"I shall go hon^e,"

"And then?"

"I shall howl!"

Though he had not failed to notice her on the previous occasions, he was surprised that he had not noticed her more. He regaill^^ her with rising interest, even with gratitude. Her face, though lacking in color, had a beauty which was accentuated by the style in which the dark hair was worn — ^parted in the centre, and waving loosely over her brow and ears. Her eyes at first sight had looked black, but he saw now that they were grey.

"My programme will be as lively as your own," he said.

"You have nowhere to go either?"

"Oh, I've a large selection of thoroughfares ; and / can 'go home' too. There's no place like home — and it's often very fortunate I"

"What do you do?" she asked.

"I'm an actor."

"Are you?" she exclaimed; "I shouldn't have guessed it. I'm an actress."

"I wondered if you were ; I was sure you acted or sang. Are you playing anywhere?"

"I was in the Independent Theatre last month- — did you go ? I haven't done anything since then ; it's such a bad time of the year. I was very fortunate to be in the 'Independent' ; I was playing In Ealing, and the Margetsons saw me, and offered me the engagement. I understudied Mrs. Margetsqn. If I could have played Hilda 1"

"Does Ibsen attract you?" he asked.

"Well, I should like to play Hilda Wangel in The Master Builder. I should like to play Hilda; and I long to play Juliet, and— oh, I who am nobody, how I should love to create Lucy Feverel on the stage !"

"You read Meredith?"

"Because I'm an obscure actress can't I read? Oh, I know I I'm not surprised you stared. But I might have stared at you for knowing it was Meredith! Lucyl She's the nineteenth-century Juliet, isn't she? Are you among the enemies of the 'Independent,' or among the people who care nothing about it?"

"Neither," he said. "The greatest work will never appeal to the greatest number. How should it?"

"That's discouraging to an artist!" She rested her elbows on the cloth — her fingers interlaced, and supporting her chin — her eyes lifted to him attentively.

"I mean the greatest creative work. Does an actor or an actress create? You used the word, but I'm afraid we don't I The best of us interpret — like Paderewski, Sarasate; Wagner creates. Shakespeare created Hamlet; the actor who plays the part tries to interpret his intention. Need he be any the less an artist because the nature of his art demands collaboration ?"

"His collaborators aren't all Shakespeares," she said; "nor Ibsens."

"Oh, the actor who interprets may be infinitely more subtle than the part to be interpreted. What banalities are seriously considered because he gives them life out of his own mind and heart!"

"But good work is knocking at the stage doors I" she cried; "why isn't it admitted? Why does the actor put the banalities on? When he is his own Manager, why not produce things that are worthy of him?"

"Because the Best only appeals to the minority as

8 XpE ACTOR-MANAGER

I say. If you want a proof of it, remember that England claims the greatest dramatic poet the world has known, and then look down the list of the travelling Companies — see how many are playing his work in the United Kingdom I You knowl — it's appalling. Managers wouldn't pay fees for trash, instead of taking poetry for nothing, if the poetry *drew' as well; you can be quite sure of that; for their ambition is to make money I"

"Is it yours?" she asked impatiently. "If you were an actor-manager, what would you produce?"

The attendant folded her novelette, rose, and came round to the table.

"It's shuttin' up time, please," she said; "we're only open to four o'clock to-day." She tore out two vouchers, and picked up the coins.

"I wish I had spoken to you over the soup," said Oliphant, watching the girl put on her gloves.

She smiled. "I was praying you wouldn't speak at all — I felt so miserable. But I am glad you did. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," he repeated, as she preceded him down the stairs. "It would be a farce to wish you *A Merry Christmas,' " he added, as they reached the foot, "but I hope it won't be too wretched! Are you going to take that walk, and *loathe them violently' ?"

"I think so — it will be something to do."

She seemed undecided whether to extend her hand; then made as if to offer it.

"You wouldn*t let me come with you?" he said hesitatingly; "I "

"I think not," she said; "thanks."

They stood on the desolate pavement, looking away from each other. The daylight was slowly fading, and on the pallor a yellow gas-lamp leapt into the perspective.

"You don't mind my having asked you? I — I meant no harm."

"No, I understand," she said; "but "

"It would lessen the awfulness for half an hour," pleaded Oliphant. "I've no one to talk to; I've nothing to read; and, oh, I have the blues I Can't you imagine we've been introduced ? Do let me . . . Will you?"

She wavered an instant "For half an hour then," she responded ; "come I"

"Thank you," he said, "very much. Which way do we go?"

"Oh, the loneliness of London 1" exclaimed the girl as they crossed the road; "the loneliness of itl" She glanced at him and sighed. "This is very improbable," she remarked.

"Probabilities aren't pleasing," said Oliphant. "The greatest probability is that *the part is already cast' 1"

lO THE ACTOR-MANAGER

''It's a hard profession/' she assented, 'if one has no Influence. Have you been in town?"

"I've just got my first engagement here. We open in about a fortnight. The Queen's. I speak twelve lines. On tour I've been playing 'juveniles.' "

"How dreadful I What you must feell"

"I do. But I couldn't endure the provinces for ever. I want to get on — ^make my mark. I have worked so hard, and hoped so long; it's time I did something. If I'm playing in London, a chance may be easier to find — in the Companies on tour one is buried. Don't you think so ?"

"I've played several small parts in London," she said; "but they have led to no better chance for me. Oh, I'm discouraged! I haven't struggled so long as you, I daresay; but a girl's weaker, and I'm discouraged I"

"Are you quite alone?"

She n6dded. "I lost my mother last year; she

was all I had. When she died, it " her voice

quivered, and they strolled on in silence. "I think it made it crueller," she continued softly, "to know she thought I'd get on better without her, because — because it was my joy to help her as much as I could while she lived."

"I envy you!" said OHphant; "all / did was to cause my father pain."

"Didn't he want you to be an actor; is that what you mean? Did you quarrel?"

"He didn't quarrel with me, but he was disappointed. And he was the best father a man ever had/'

"I like you for saying that," she answered. "What did he want you to be?"

"What he was himself — a clergyman."

"Really?" she said with surprise; "and you felt you couldn't?"

"I wanted to, once. It was as I grew older that my views changed. I don't mean religious views, or anything like that — I simply felt that my temperament forbade it, and that the Stage was the only career possible for me. You asked me in there what I'd do if I were an actor-manager. I went into the profession because I loved it; because it seemed to me the Stage might teach as hig^ a lesson as the Pulpit — ^that it might be the loudest, greatest voice in all the world. More powerful than the Church, because the Church is precept and the Stage is action ; more intimate than the sister-arts, because it speaks in a simpler tongue. And it should be Art; but art — art is Revelation 1 Shall I tell you what my dream is?"

"Yes," said the girl, raising an earnest gaze; "tell me your dream 1"

Instinctively they had paused. They were by the pillar-box at the gates of the British Museum. In the immense quietude theirs were the only human

A figures; the London that gorged, and the London that wept, were both out of view.

''I see,'' he said, '*a small theatre, and at this theatre the one literary medium for the Drama isn't held to be the baldest prose; poetry is neither divorced from this stage, nor limited to Shakespeare — it is thought possible to test the work of a poet who has not had centuries of advertising! But the realist is as welcome as the poet ; oh, he is welcome ! Only the plays are Literature, and they are real plays. The men and women live! They are not puppets pulled by inexorable strings through four Acts to a conventional end. Reward for virtue and punishment for vice are shown to exist in the soul, and not in material success and failure. To depict the world as a school, where virtue wins the prize and vice gets a flogging, is immoral. The parts around me aren't written down to bring my part into greater prominence. The dramatist who comes to me is free; free to be true to his convictions and his art; free to choose his characters where he will, and to trace their legitimate development; free to make the 'lost' woman noble, and the *godly' woman vile — for such things are/ — and the love within him for all humanity would point the moral when it needed pointing. The real playwright is your real optimist — ^your real Christ-follower — for he shows that sin doesn't mean damnation, and that there is redemption for the pure in heart. The one command laid upon him is to see things nobly — that his deeper vision shall help the crowd! Where shall I find such writers? There are dramatists not known, and well-known writers who could write much better I By degrees I gather round me a band of— of the dmes bien neesy the — ^how shall I say it? —the "

"The elect I" she put in rapidly; "yes, I understand French. It would be a good name for the house— The Elect r'

"I 'produce' men who don't work for the Stage now, or whose manuscripts are considered hopeless because they don't appeal to the largest public. With a small theatre I could afford to depend upon^ the educated minority. There is a Press waiting for such an endeavor, and, though at first the 'notices' are bigger than the 'returns,' they gradually win for me the recognition of the entire public that I am addressing. Believe me that public is large enough to keep my house open all the year round.

Miss , er — my companion in misfortune, my

theatre becomes a force in intellectual London. I am famous, happy! I have fulfilled my ambition, I am the Manager of the — the Theatre Royal Daydream! ... I have been keeping you standing still in the cold; forgive me!"

She caught her breath. "You are an artist," she said. "I believe you'll succeed. Ah, this is one of the moments when I think that to be an artist and fail, is something!'*

"We are both artists," he said; "The Two Bohemians !"

"I haven't told you my name. It is Alma King."

"I'm so glad we met, Miss Kingl Mine is Royce Oliphant. You see the benefit of giving a thing a trial — ^we couldn't know each other better if the formal introduction had taken place I Now could we?"

"Look I" she murmured, halting again in two or three minutes.

He glanced at the window that she indicated. "Ah, the opportunity for the violent loathing!"

"No," she said; "only for the imagination after all. How torpid they look after their dinner I But it's cozy in the firelight, isn't it? I wonder what they do— one can't see their features? Trade, of course! Trade in saddlebag armchairs digests the turkey, and Art in the streets builds castles in the air. Observe the adipose children?"

"Their figures are not distinguishable," said Oliphant.

"I feel they're adipose — I told you this was an exercise of the imagination. Oh, the servant has come to pull the blinds down! The entertainment is over. I don't think we'll look in anywhere else— other people's comfort is very saddening!"

They waited there, by the area railings, in Bedford Square, nevertheless, till the last of the blinds was lowered. Illuminated, the interior had a fascination — ^the group on the hearth, and the gleam of decanters under the crimson shade above the damask; the glinting picture-frames, and the splendor of a Christmas-tree. Meanwhile on the Two Bohemians a little snow commenced to fall.

"You must go home," said Oliphant regretfully. "Do you live far away?"

"No, close," she said; "in Alfred Place. And you?"

"In Burton Crescent."

"Oh, how wet you'll get! You'd better leave me here; it's coming down more heavily."

"Nonsense! I'll see you to your door. We go through Store Street, don't we?"

They hastened their steps, but both were sorry that the end had come; to each the prospect of the evening looked unutterably dismal.

"I suppose I may see you at dinner again?" asked Oliphant, as they turned by the little post-office at the corner. "Have you any regular time?"

"About two, as a rule."

"Shall you be there to-morrow?"

"I don't know," she said, stopping; "perhaps. This is the house."

"Good-bye, then," said Oliphant, "and thank you again. I won't keep you standing in a snowstorm to listen to pretty speeches, but I'm grateful to you. I should like to think we're going to be friends."

She drew out a latch-key, and faced him a moment with steadfast eyes. Then quite simply she said :

"I want you to come in, Mr. Oliphant, please; and we'll have some tea."

She opened the door; and, delighted, he followed her into the dark passage, and into an apartment to which she led the way. The fire was low, and it was not until she had lighted the lamp that Oliphant perceived that she was compelled to make shift with one room. The asperities of bed and wash-hand stand, however, were mollified by a shabby screen. He chose a seat where they would be behind him, and noted the resemblance between the broken vases on the mantelpiece and his own. A framed photograph stood among them, and the girl took it up and showed it to him.

"This was a likeness of my mother, Mr. Oliphant," she said.

The dignity of the action thrilled him with pleasure and respect ; he felt that she could not have done anything more beautiful.

She removed her cape and gloves, and, kneeling on the hearth, coaxed the fire into a blaze.

"Are you very wet?" she said. "As soon as the kettle boils, things will be more cheerful. I wait on myself very much here — I find it better."

THE ACTOR-MANAGER I?

'*Have you been here long?" asked Oliphant.

"No; only since the ^Independent' performances — nearly two months. It isn't very comfortable, but ... I shall move when I get another engagement. In the meanwhile I have to put up with it." She pulled the pin from her hat, and passed her slim hands over her hair. "You are looking at my 'library' ! It's modest, is it not?"

"I can only distinguish two-thirds of the library," he said; "TA^ Works of Shakespeare, and Archer's Masks or Faces — ^you know your Masks or Faces, do you 1 What is the little one ?"

"The little one is ninepennyworth of Browning. I'm studying Any Wife to Any Husband — ^because I shall never in my life be given an opportunity to recite it 1"

"Recite it now," said Oliphant.

"No, thank you ! But what a recitation it would make! I don't know why no woman ever does it. Ah, it's lovely— can one express how divine it is! Do you read much? But of course you do! I wonder if you've ever tried to write ?"

"What makes you ask that ?" he said.

"Have you?"

"Once."

"A play?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, yes; a play, of course."

"It hasn't been produced, I suppose? — Oh, how rude that sounds I"

"The assumption's entirely correct It has been accepted three times, but has not been produced. It's in an agent's hands now; and I suppose it will stay there — ^unless he loses it. It's a drama."

"Good?" she inquired, settling the kettle afresh.

"/ thought it was very good. So did everybody else, who read it — only nobody *puts it on.' Your kettle won't sing! Isn't that what you call it — 'singing'? Shall I draw up the fire for you with that newspaper?"

"The water was cold," she said; "it'll be all right in a minute. I'll ring for a second cup and saucer. Tell me about your drama."

"The idea — ^the foundation-stone at least — is a shade melodramatic, perhaps ; but the theme doesn't make a play melodrama if there's no bombast in the treatment?"

"I don't know," she said; "but even if it does, mightn't a melodrama without bombast be as much art as anything else? *The great future for the Stage lies in perfect freedom : freedom to try every kind of experiment — to be realistic or idealistic, prosaic or fantastic, "well made" or plotless; freedom to go anywhere, like the British Army, and do anything.' Have I a 'quick study' ? — I've only read the book once. What is the foundation-stone?"

"It was suggested by the Tichborne Case. Life, of course I But so many phases of life become melodrama when they're transferred to the stage."

The bell drew from the basement a seven-yearold child with wooden eyes, and fat unhealthy cheeks. Jam and mince-pie clung to his chin, and he snored.

"Will you ask your mother to let me have another cup and saucer, Norman?" said the lodger deprecatingly. "Say I've a friend here. . . . We shall have it directly," she continued, as the child shuffled out, "and then you must tell me the plot."

They sat opposite each other by the narrow stove. Momentarily the dramatist was as strong as the actor in Oliphant, and the play for which he had hoped so much three years ago moved him to confidence again. The girl, her hands clasped loosely round her knee, leant forward, stirred by visions in which a mighty theatre hung upon her voice, and the conquest of London was achieved. Both turned at a peremptory knock, and started as the door was thrown open.

The demeanor of the woman who stood on the threshold was as excited as her method of announcing herself. Her face was white, and when she began to speak she trembled.

"This is pretty goings-on," she said; "this won't do 'erel I don't 'ave it, and that's all about it." She turned to Oliphant. "I'll trouble you to leave the 'ouse. Now then!"

"Mrs. Immsl" stammered the girl, as white as she.

"My good woman," exclaimed Oliphant, horribly distressed, "what do you mean? I assure you^

There isn't the slightest cause for your annoyance. I've the honor to be a friend of Miss King's, and she was kind enough to ask me in for half an hour. I shouldn't have thought there was anything extraordinary about it on Christmas Day."

The householder did not seem to understand, or to hear him.

"You'd best be off," she repeated; "and so I tell yer ! This is a respectable 'ouse — not meant for the likes of 'er! Yes, you I'm talkin' about — ^yer thing; you as don't pay your rent 1 I might 'ave told what it'd be when I found you was an actress — I'd never 'ave taken you if I'd known 1"

"You — ignorant — wretch!" gasped the girl, steadying herself by the mantelpiece. "Go," she added to Oliphant; "please, go!"

"The woman's been drinking," he said in a low voice; "do you want me to leave you to her?"

"Yes ; please 1 — please," she murmured agitatedly.

"Ahal" cried Mrs. Imms; "and you go with 'im, that's more 1 I won't keep you no longer. Out you go 1 I'll 'ave your box for what it's worth, and you don't sleep in my 'ouse, not another night 1"

Oliphant looked sharply round; but the mute appeal forbade his lingering. The uproar continued as he traversed the passage — still in darkness — and fumbled with the handles at the end.

The street opened upon him quiet and bleak. The snow had ceased, but the wind blew bitterly. He hated himself for having come in, though he could not perceive where he had been at fault. The woman's threat to turn the girl out of doors was in his ears, and weighed on his consciousness; impossible that he could leave unless satisfied that it was not to be fulfilled. He made a cigarette, lit it, and sauntered to and fro, debating how long a vigil was demanded to dispel all doubt.

His capital was reduced to eighteen shillings and a few pence; his prospects were represented by the engagement at the Queen's Theatre, of which he had spoken— an engagement which would provide him with the sum of two pounds a week, less than half the salary that he had been receiving in the provinces. If it had been otherwise He sighed. He reflected that it would have been a luxury to pay the amount of Mrs. Imms' claim, and to send Miss King to an hotel this evening: a room with a cozy armchair, and a glowing hearth, where she would dine in reality before she slept, and have a respite from her cares. Yes, that would have been delightful! Did rich men have these pleasures ? Or did the opportunities only fall to men like himself, who couldn't seize them?

His cigarette was finished; he paused by a lamppost, and tried, with numbed fingers, to roll another. Now she would regret that she had met him — the oasis in the desert of their London had proved a misfortune to her! Who could have foreseen that it would have so serious a development? All the same, she would always recall it with abhorrence — that was only human nature. . . . But perhaps in the morning the landlady would apologize. He threw a glance at the house again, and ran forward as a figure appeared on the doorstep.

"You?" faltered the girl, shrinking.

**I couldn't go till I knew," he said. "Are you going away?"

"Yes ; don't— don't trouble, thanks. It was good of you to wait; but there's nothing you can do." Her tone was hard; but it could not conceal that there were tears in her throat. She looked away from him.

"Haven't you your luggage ?"

"She wouldn't let me take it. You see, I

You understand, I owe her money — she has kept my things. I have these 1"