A lost paradise

Chapter I

SUCCESS! It pulsed and vibrated throughout the entire theatre, from the footlights to the outermost limits of the lobby, from the orchestra seats to the eerie heights of the peanut gallery, in subtle telepathic waves.

Some suggestion of it penetrated even to the grim fastnesses of the box-office, where scepticism rules rampant, and with thin-lipped cynicism watches the wavering line at the ticket-window, until, perchance, put to flight by weeks of "capacity" business.

A brilliant audience was crowding into the lobby, an audience of evening clothes and automobiles, goodnatured, prosperous, smiling with pleased expectancy. The play had been well advertised. The theatre was a popular one. They looked for a success, since here successes in the past had been the rule. Even the name of the play, "The Winner," glowing across the front of the theatre in electric brilliancy, seemed to nullify any idea of failure. Success vibrated in the air, elusive, yet unmistakable.

To the tired-eyed actors in their dressing-rooms, however, these vibrations did not extend. Between them and the front of the house hung an asbestos curtain, a wall between the land of the real and the land of the make-believe. These hard-working folk, whose make-believe is so bitterly real as well, in its hardships and its disappointments, had learned, by experience, to feel no surety, no certainty of success, until it had been definitely won. And then, too, it is considered an evil omen, in that stronghold of superstition back of the footlights, for the actors to feel great confidence in a new play. Too often has it presaged disaster.

The body of the house, cunningly "dressed" as is usual on opening nights, presented a brilliant and vividly interesting spectacle. Everybody, it might almost be said, was there. Down front sat the implacable " death watch," the habitual first-nighters, habitually bored. With them might have been seen the critics, in the aisle seats of the first few rows, some of them trying to evolve witticisms at the expense of the title of the play, and already blocking out their criticisms in advance; others boredly reading their programmes, wondering, the while, what the devil it was all about, this time. Seeing from one to two hundred new plays a season has its disadvantages. One is apt to become ultrasophisticated.

Toward the centre of the house sat the manager's friends, and his friends' friends, to the number of two or three hundred, all, like the department-store clerks and sales-ladies in the first balcony, ready to applaud vociferously anything that might afford the least semblance of an excuse for applause. A "paper" audience largely, ready-handed, and, with the exception of the "death watch" and the critics, an indulgent one.

Here and there were to be seen prominent actors or actresses, out of an engagement for the moment, welcoming the opportunity to be, as it were, on the sidelines, instead of in the game ; rival managers, eager to see the latest attempt of the opposition, secretly hoping for failure; magazine editors, playwrights and "near" playwrights, newspaper men, friends of the various members of the company, and a sprinkling of the general public.

The brilliant evening gowns of the women, punctuated more or less regularly by the sombre black and white of their escorts, gave to the assemblage the appearance of a huge and animated flower garden, in which the men played the part of stakes to which the various plants were affixed.

A subtle perfume, an electrical buzz of conversation, a thrill of delicious, although secret, cruelty, swept through the audience. Not without reason did La Rochefoucauld say, "There is that in the misfortunes of others which is not displeasing to us." This attitude was by no means confined to the outsiders. Even the friends of those most intimately concerned felt it, although they were not conscious of it. Before them £ grim conflict was about to be unfolded, a conflict between failure and success. Much was at stake — the price of victory might run far into six figures. They would not have been human, had they not felt an impersonal interest in the outcome of the struggle, and, if the time should come for turning down the thumb, even the self-interest that would prevent them from doing so could not destroy the secret joy of the impulse.

There are but three people, perhaps, in this audience of several hundred, in whom we are particularly interested. One is the manager, florid of face, painfully, almost unreally calm, nervously smoking his cigar in the lobby. The house is nearly full. The orchestra has begun the overture. In eight minutes, or possibly ten, the lights will flash for the rise of the curtain. He has, in all, some five thousand dollars at stake — the production has been a fairly costly one, for a play of the type. He is wondering whether he will lose it, or whether it will multiply itself a hundred-fold in the sunshine of success. In a little while he will go inside, and, leaning over the brass rail behind the last row of seats, will watch, not the performance, but the audience.

Just at the moment, two friends of his, who have seen the dress rehearsal, are telling him how impossible it would be for the play not to be a tremendous hit. He listens to this with ill-concealed annoyance, regarding it as an unfavorable sign.

The second person with whom we are for the moment concerned, is a keen-looking, middle-aged man, who occupies a seat alone in the tenth row. He has pointed gray mustaches, of a military flavor, • and slightly gray hair. From his close-lipped, rather cynical mouth, one would judge him to a man whose acquaintance with human nature was both varied and intimate. His smile, however, although it intensifies the net-work of wrinkles about his eyes, gives the lie to the cynicism of his mouth. A man with a heart, although the road to it might not be an easy one. He gazes about, nodding here and there to some of the professional people in the audience, from which it might appear that he is of their world. This to a limited extent is true. Edmund Taylor is the owner and also largely the editor of a magazine, the keen and incisive wit of which but serves to give point to the weightier matter for which it is noted. A man of the world, in the best sense, Mr. Taylor. We shall see more of him, hereafter. He has come, to-night, because of an exceptional interest in the author of the play.

The third person concerning us directly at this time is also a friend of the author — a friend, that is, for want of a better term, since she has about made up her mind to marry him. She is a handsome young woman of twenty-eight, who looks twenty-two and thinks forty. The first impression that reaches the casual observer is one of exceptional beauty. Through the haze of it presently appear two rather remarkable gray-green eyes, notable both for their unsuspected flashes of sophistication, and for the fact that they are set perhaps a trifle too close together. She is, however, very lovely and charming, and that causes one to forgive her somewhat self-assertive manner.

Her chin is firm, excellently molded, and full of character. Her hair is deep brown, with reddish highlights. Her figure is ultra-modern, of that box-like variety, narrow of hip, flat of back, which robs women of the purely maternal attribute, but lends them a more far-reaching sex appeal, no doubt because it is both more bizarre and more elusive.

Her rather too flagrant exposure of her shoulders and breast finds palliation in their ivory-like beauty, and in the girlishness of their contour. Youth can so brazenly defy the conventions, when it affords its own excuse. Inez Gordon radiates youth, being both old enough and wise enough to conceal her sophistication behind a mask of girlish innocence. This is the more easy, no doubt, since she is an actress.

She sits alone, with perhaps as deep an interest in the play as anyone in the audience, not excepting the manager and the author. This arises from the fact, already mentioned, that she has made up her mind to marry the latter, in case the play proves a success. It must not be supposed for a moment that the object of her intentions knows this. He supposes she is going to marry him in any event, since they love each other, and have many times agreed, between them, that love is the most perfect flower of human existence, or words to that effect.

And lest the foregoing do either of these young persons an injustice, let it be said that they do love each other, although no shock of adversity has yet come, to prove whether that love is founded on the rock of truth, or on the shifting sands of opportunity. Its strength has not as yet been tested.

She sits nervously fingering her programme, and wondering why the rise of the curtain is so long delayed. It is but two minutes past the half-hour, yet these two minutes have seemed like ages. She wonders how long it will be before she stands on the opposite side of the footlights, on such a night as this, starring in a play of her famous playwright husband. The play in which she is to star has, in fact, already been started. Only the weeks of rehearsal incident upon the present production have prevented its completion.

Inez Gordon is a native of New York, and a product of it, as well. Gordon is not her name. Neither is Inez. She was baptized Sophie Walsh, and her father has been for many years a clerk of the Supreme Court. She has drifted to the stage because of her beauty. She has stayed there because of her ability. So far, ingenue parts, and leads in small summer stock companies, have been the limits of her success. At present, she is out of an engagement, because the show in which she opened in January ran but two melancholy weeks. She has known the author of the present play for seven months, and they have both looked forward for three to this evening with high hopes. Hence her nervousness, as she awaits the rise of the curtain.

Behind that curtain, a seemingly hopeless confusion prevails. A half-dozen stage-hands are rushing here and there, under the direction of the head carpenter, adjusting a hundred tiny details of scenery. The property-man is taking a final look about, consulting with nervous intensity a typewritten list he holds in his hand, and making sure for the twentieth time that nothing, down to the box of matches on the smoking table, or the broken paper-knife on the desk, has been forgotten. A "scenic artist" is daubing brushfuls of paint on certain scars in the scenery, which have resuited from the wear and tear of the previous three nights "on the road." The stage-director is inspecting everything with an anxiety born of responsibility, for upon his shoulders the burden of the production rests. He has just called the electrician's attention to the fact that one of his "baby spots," the purpose of which is to focus itself with unvarying pertinacity upon the face of the leading woman, is striking one of the set pieces, thereby not only defeating its primary purpose, but illuminating a box of artificial geraniums in a window sill until they fairly leap across the footlights.

In a few moments, the signal will be given for the rise of the curtain. The actors, garish in their makeup, crowd the wings, nervously repeating to themselves their opening lines. Upon the faces of all of them rests a look of fear. This is an opening night. The dread spectre of a missed cue, a forgotten line, a mistaken piece of "business," haunts them. They know the temper of the audience beyond that protecting curtain. They know that, for all its friendliness, it will pounce upon them, and rend them to bits, if they fail. They know the thin dividing line, the feather edge, between tragedy and laughter. They know how frightfully easy it is to overstep that line. They feel like early Christian martyrs, about to enter the arena, and even the most seasoned of them — perhaps particularly the most seasoned of them — is afraid.

There are many little tragedies behind their greasepaint. Here is a man who has been without an engagement for nearly a year, and who has gone into debt for hundreds of dollars at his club, in order to live. To him

A LOST PABADISE. 13

the success of this play means even more than it does to the manager, for the latter can laugh at the loss of a few thousands, but the former may sit in a hall bedroom and think of suicide. Here is a woman, who has two children to support, and looks to her thirty-five dollars a week to support them. If the play fails, she may be obliged to borrow money from the wolf-eyed man who has been for weeks so over-ready to lend it. But these little tragedies are outside our story. The public, out in front, knows nothing of them. The critics may know, but they are judging a play, not life. " The play's the thing." Let us leave the actors to their fate.

And what of the author all this time? He is the cause of all this excitement and bustle, all this hoping and fearing. He has sat in his room, and written a hundred and twenty pages of typewritten manuscript, and as a result perhaps ten thousand people have done ten thousand things, all tending toward the vibrating moment when the curtain shall rise, and the audience sit back with a sigh of relief, and begin to watch the action of the play.

Scenery has been painted for him. Properties have been bought, borrowed or manufactured. Costumes have been made. All the resources of department stores, antique shops, electrical manufacturers, rug-dealers, furniture-makers, and what not, have been drawn upon to contribute toward his success. Nearly a thousand people have so ordered their lives that upon this particular evening they sit in this particular theatre, to witness the result of his mental efforts. Taxicab drivers, car conductors, have brought them. All the machinery of civilized life, in one way or another, has, by his cerebration, been brought to bear, for the moment, upon this thirty-foot stage, in order to win him success. And yet we seem to have forgotten him.

By searching diligently through the mass of scenery and properties which litter the rear of the stage, we shall presently find a distressingly pale and nervous-looking young man, sitting on a packing box in a corner, smoking a cigarette, the while he pretends to read the contents of a sheaf of congratulatory telegrams which he holds in one hand.

He is in evening dress, the cut of which is a trifle archaic, owing to its having been made some five years before. His soft gray hat is pulled rakishly over one ear. His face, handsome, clean-shaven, somewhat boyish, shows deep lines of sleeplessness and overwork. He has sat up for the past three nights, rewriting certain scenes, which on the road have developed unsuspected weaknesses. His eyes have the brightness due to over-stimulation. He is so nervous that he can scarcely read the kindly wishes for success which the telegrams have brought him. The stage door-keeper, remembering several excellent cigars donated during rehearsals, comes up and hands him more telegrams.

"Hope it's a knock-out, Mr. Randall," he says pleasantly.

The young man nods, smiling a rather ghastly smile, and slips the telegrams into his pocket.

" Sure to be," he replies, "if the wishes of my friends can make it so." He lights another cigarette, and, rising, begins to pace restlessly up and down. He wishes himself a thousand miles away, yet could not be induced to stir a dozen paces from where he now stands.

He is a man of good height, and would be of good build, as well, were he a trifle heavier. His clothes hang a little too loosely on his frame; evidently he weighs less than he did when they were made for him. His half-humorous, half-whimsical smile develops deep lines in his face. It suggests, in a way, the tired face of a gambler, and not without reason. If this play fails Richard Eandall will not only be flat broke, but he will be nearly two thousand dollars in debt, as well. If it succeeds, he may make a hundred thousand — perhaps even two. It is quite as exciting as roulette, or any other gambling game, and the stakes are larger. Men have committed suicide, at Monte Carlo, for less. And the wheel is about to begin spinning. In two hours and a half — indeed, in less, for the end of the third act will tell the story — all will be over. No wonder the man is nervous.

He selects from the envelopes in his hand a single one, which contains, not a telegram, but a folded sheet of paper. Upon it is written, "Success — for you, Dick, and for us. Inez." He kisses the bit of paper, looking about furtively, to see whether or not any of the stage-hands have observed him. They have not, being all far too busy.

Suddenly, there is a cessation of bustle upon the • stage. The stage-hands crowd into the wings. The director gives a last look about, and whispers, "Ring !" An electric button is pressed. The orchestra ceases its playing, with a flourish. The curtain rises. Kandall hears a clear voice saying, "Here is the morning's mail, Miss." He throws down his cigarette, and walks slowly toward the stage entrance. The conflict is on. " Vae victis."

CHAPTEK H.

EICHAED RANDALL walked slowly toward the stage door. A beautiful woman, her face blazing with rouge, her eyebrows and lashes encrusted with grease paint, met him as he reached the foot of the stairway leading to the dressing-rooms.

" Oh, I do hope it will be a success, Mr. Kandall," she said. " I wish it for you with all my heart, and I believe you're going to get it."

He smiled and pressed her hand between both of his.

"You dear!" he exclaimed. "I know I shall, if it rests with you. Good luck, to-night — and always."

She laughed, and arranged the flowers in her corsage.

" You're not going ? " she inquired, glancing toward the stage door.

" Just to get a little air. You see, I'm sort of nervous — I guess, and — " He paused, smiling.

" So am I," she remarked, with a little moue of dissatisfaction. "I always am opening nights, but I'll get over it as soon as I've spoken my first lines." She paused for a moment, listening. "For heaven's sake, don't let me miss that cue."

" Run along then. I'd never hear it, in my present state." He patted her shoulder affectionately. " You're superb, Miss Ellis. If the thing's a go, I'll owe a lot to you." He flashed her a smile that matched in its genuineness the note of feeling in his voice. " I don't know where we'd have been, if anyone else had played the lead."

She started suddenly.

"That's me!" she cried, and ran toward the wings. "Good-by." With her very next breath she was speaking the opening lines of her part, as she made her entrance.

Randall paused for a moment, smiling, as he listened to her clear, steady voice, then passed out into the alley beside the theatre.

In the street, he debated whether to go around to the front of the house, and see the first act, or to walk on toward Broadway. He decided upon the latter. He knew the play by heart, and felt too nervously excited to be able to endure hearing it again. He strolled on toward the maze of electric signs that marked Broadway.

A dozen reasons told him that the play would be a success. It had been most favorably reviewed upon the road. It was written with sincerity, with a real striving toward the truth. It had been given an excellent production, and in the main a competent cast. It was not his first play. A bitter failure the preceding season had, he believed, taught him much. The critics had been savage, on that occasion, but beneath their cheap witticisms, their cynical derision, he had found much that was true, much that was helpful. He believed that he had profited by it. The only fear in his heart arose from a knowledge that sincerity and truth, in a play, are by no means always in its favor. Sometimes people resented these things. They came to the theatre to be entertained, not shown their littleness, their shortcomings.

Yet such plays had succeeded. He revolved endlessly about this theme, as he made his way into the cafe of a near-by hotel.

He felt strangely tired — almost apathetic. He was experiencing the reaction from the bitter strain of the five preceding weeks. He had worked very hard — had built such great hopes upon the success of this play. It meant more to him, indeed, than just the money it might bring him. All these letters and telegrams in his pocket spoke of a faith, on the part of his friends, which it was necessary, now, for him to justify. They had stuck by him, loyally, through one failure. He could not ask them to do so through a second.

Then, there was Edmund Taylor, the editor, who had proven such a splendid friend. During the past eighteen months, he had lent Randall nearly two thousand dollars, just because he believed in him and his ability. What would Taylor say, what would he think, if another failure were to be scored against him ?

And, above all, there was Inez Gordon. Randall felt in his waistcoat pocket, and drew out a ring, a heavy band of gold, curiously enameled, and containing a sapphire. It was not a costly ring — he was in no position to spend money for jewelry — but he had taken a small sum from the advance royalty of five hundred dollars, which Harrison, the manager, had paid him upon closing the contract for the play, and had bought this ring, a curious antique, for a specific purpose. He meant, if the play was a success to-night, to ask Inez Gordon to marry him, and this ring he intended should be her engagement ring.

He slipped the ring quickly back into his pocket as a man came up to him.

"Hello, Kandall!" he said. "How's the boy?"

"Pretty well. Have a drink?" He nodded to the bar-tender. "What'll it be?"

"Little whiskey for me. Why aren't you at your show ? You open to-night, don't you ?"

"Yes, I — I just ran out — for a moment."

"How's she going?"

"Too early to say yet."

"Well, I wish you luck." He tossed off his drink. "Got great notices out of town, I hear. Say, if you've got any other plays, bring 'em around. I'd be glad to read 'em. So long. Got a party waiting for me over at the Astor, so I can't stop." He hurried off.

Randall walked back toward the theatre, an amused smile about the corners of his eyes. This man, Slesinger, was a manager whom he had been vainly trying, for some months past, to get to read one of his plays. The manuscript had remained in his office unread, for many weeks. It was there now. How greatly even the possibility of success changed the aspect of things. If to-night proved his worth as a playwright, he knew that to-morrow would find his wares at a premium. Managers would even compete with one another, to secure the output of his pen. Anything he wrote would find at least an immediate reading, with excellent chances of acceptance upon the strength of his success. It was, indeed, a large stake, for which he was playing.

He reached the theatre just as the curtain was rising on the second act. He passed the ticket-taker with a nod, and entered the darkened auditorium. As he stood behind the rail, listening to the familiar words of the dialogue, someone touched him on the arm. It was Harrison, his manager.

"Where've you been ?" the latter whispered.

"Back."

"First act went great."

"Did it? That's good."

"Six curtains. That Ellis girl's a wonder."

"Glad you think so. I always did." There was a winged dart in this latter remark. Harrison had objected to Randall's choice for the lead strenuously, and had only given in after many predictions of dire failure.

"I know you did. I'll hand it to you." The manager was a big-enough man to admit his mistakes when he made any.

They stood in silence, watching the remainder of the act. It moved smoothly, rapidly, vitally. The audience was undeniably interested. There was none of that rustling restlessness which so quickly becomes evident whenever a scene fails to hold. Both Harrison and Randall dreaded that shifting of feet, that moving of programmes, that low clearing of throats, more than they would have dreaded open and condemnatory hissing. The latter might mean a sensation, which, though unpleasant, the town would crowd to see. The former could only mean the dulness that spells failure.

The act terminated. Randall and his companion counted the calls. By clever manipulation of the curtain they totaled twelve. And only the second act! It certainly looked like a success.

"Let's get a drink," said Harrison, as they hurried out to avoid the rising crowd.

Randall assented at once. He had no desire to talk things over, at this stage of the game, with the many acquaintances who would shortly throng into the loLby. He preferred to wait, and meet them when success was assured beyond all peradventure.

"I'm going back, for this act," Randall said, when they had returned from the cafe at the corner.

"All right. And be in the first lower entrance, for the curtain. If this is a real success, and not a false alarm, you may have to go on. I'll be there."

Randall shivered. He dreaded the ordeal, much as he hoped for it. He had no desire to appear and make a perfunctory bow, yet he knew that failure to call for him would be a distressingly bad sign.

He never knew, afterward, how he got through the forty minutes of that act. It seemed longer than all his previous life. He sat in a far corner of the stage, unnoticed, and consumed cigarette after cigarette, scarcely knowing what he was doing. Every few moments he glanced at his watch, for he knew that the curtain would be down at about ten, twenty-five; yet, had he been asked the time a moment after he had replaced the watch in his pocket, he could not have told it.

One of the minor actors, Miss Vincent, a young girl of about twenty, espied him, and, coming over, sat beside him.

"It's going great," she said. "Oh, Mr. Randall, I wish you'd write me a play. Or a vaudeville sketch. I've got an idea about a girl that's brought up in the country, and gets kidnaped by a burglar, and he finds out later on that it's his own daughter, that he hasn't seen for ten years. And then the girl's mother — her step-mother, I mean — "

Randall never heard the end of this remarkable plot. As the girl rambled on, suggesting that he come to her apartment some afternoon to talk it over, he became conscious of the clear, virile voice of Jane Ellis, speaking the lines which formed the concluding speech of the act. He threw down his cigarette, and ground it under his heel, thrust his soft hat into the pocket of the overcoat, and went toward the first entrance.

The stage-director was there, and with him Mr. Harrison. Several of the members of the company, who did not appear in the concluding scene of the act, clustered about. Randall made his way through the little crowd, and stood beside Mr. Paulson, the director. The curtain had just fallen.

A ghastly stillness came over the people on the stage. They moved neither hand nor foot, but listened for that first tumultuous burst of applause, the spoataneity of which their trained ears could gauge with almost unvarying correctness.

In an instant it came, beating against the wall of the curtain with a dull roar, like that made by breakers upon a beach.

Harrison smiled, and raised his hand. The curtain went up.

"King!" he called, instantly, and it fell again. Mr. Paulson, the director, was calling out the prearranged orders for the appearance of the various members of the company.

First came the second picture, with Miss Ellis and the leading man in a close embrace, then Miss Ellis alone, then with her companion in the scene, then the latter appeared alone, then the two of them, accompanied by the others who had figured in the act, in carefully arranged groups. The applause did not diminish in volume. Harrison's smile became more and more broad. He knew, of course, that much of the clapping came from his own cohorts, but there seemed to him a genuine ring about it that indicated success.

After the eighteenth curtain, Paulson turned to Eandall.

"They're calling for the author," he said. "You'd better show."

Harrison raised his hand.

"Don't say anything," he warned. "Just make a bow and beat it."

The warning was quite unnecessary. Randall could not have spoken a dozen words if his life had depended upon it. His brain seemed utterly at a standstill, his feet made of lead.