'I'm glad you like it, old chap,' said Doxey. 'I thought you would.'
They were in Henry's study, seated almost side by side at Henry's great American roll-top desk.
'You've got it a bit hard in places,' Henry pursued. 'But I'll soon put that right.'
'Can you do it to-day?' asked the adapter.
'Why?'
'Because I know old Johnny Pilgrim wants to shove a new curtain-raiser into the bill at once. If I could take him this to-morrow——'
'I'll post it to you to-night,' said Henry. 'But I shall want to see Mr. Pilgrim myself before anything is definitely arranged.'
[Pg 309]
'Oh, of course,' Mr. Doxey agreed. 'Of course. I'll tell him.'
Henry softened2 the rigour of his collaborator's pen in something like half an hour. The perusal3 of this trifling4 essay in the dramatic form (it certainly did not exceed four thousand words, and could be played in twenty-five minutes) filled his mind with a fresh set of ideas. He suspected that he could write for the stage rather better than Mr. Doxey, and he saw, with the eye of faith, new plumes5 waving in his cap. He was aware, because he had read it in the papers, that the English drama needed immediate6 assistance, and he determined7 to render that assistance. The first instalment of The Plague-Spot had just come out in the July number of Macalistair's Magazine, and the extraordinary warmth of its reception had done nothing to impair8 Henry's belief in his gift for pleasing the public. Hence he stretched out a hand to the West End stage with a magnanimous gesture of rescuing the fallen.
And yet, curiously9 enough, when he entered the stage-door of Prince's Theatre one afternoon, to see John Pilgrim, he was as meek10 as if the world had never heard of him.
[Pg 310]
He informed the doorkeeper that he had an appointment with Mr. Pilgrim, whereupon the doorkeeper looked him over, took a pull at a glass of rum-and-milk, and said he would presently inquire whether Mr. Pilgrim could see anyone. The passage from the portals of the theatre to Mr. Pilgrim's private room occupied exactly a quarter of an hour.
Then, upon beholding11 the figure of John Pilgrim, he seemed suddenly to perceive what fame and celebrity12 and renown13 really were. Here was the man whose figure and voice were known to every theatre-goer in England and America, and to every idler who had once glanced at a photograph-window; the man who for five-and-twenty years had stilled unruly crowds by a gesture, conquered the most beautiful women with a single smile, died for the fatherland, and lived for love, before a nightly audience of two thousand persons; who existed absolutely in the eye of the public, and who long ago had formed a settled, honest, serious conviction that he was the most interesting and remarkable14 phenomenon in the world. In the ingenuous15 mind of Mr. Pilgrim the universe was the frame, and John Pilgrim was[Pg 311] the picture: his countless16 admirers had forced him to think so.
Mr. Pilgrim greeted Henry as though in a dream.
'What name?' he whispered, glancing round, apparently17 not quite sure whether they were alone and unobserved.
He seemed to be trying to awake from his dream, to recall the mundane18 and the actual, without success.
He said, still whispering, that the little play pleased him.
'Let me see,' he reflected. 'Didn't Doxey say that you had written other things?'
'Several books,' Henry informed him.
'Books? Ah!' Mr. Pilgrim had the air of trying to imagine what sort of thing books were. 'That's very interesting. Novels?'
'Yes,' said Henry.
Mr. Pilgrim, opening his magnificent chest and passing a hand through his brown hair, grew impressively humble19. 'You must excuse my ignorance,' he explained. 'I am afraid I'm not quite abreast20 of modern literature. I never read.' And he repeated firmly: 'I never read. Not[Pg 312] even the newspapers. What time have I for reading?' he whispered sadly. 'In my brougham, I snatch a glance at the contents-bills of the evening papers. No more.'
Henry had the idea that even to be ignored by John Pilgrim was more flattering than to be admired by the rest of mankind.
Mr. Pilgrim rose and walked several times across the room; then addressed Henry mysteriously and imposingly21:
'I've got the finest theatre in London.'
'Yes?' said Henry.
'In the world,' Mr. Pilgrim corrected himself.
Then he walked again, and again stopped.
'I'll produce your piece,' he whispered. 'Yes, I'll produce it.'
He spoke22 as if saying also: 'You will have a difficulty in crediting this extraordinary and generous decision: nevertheless you must endeavour to do so.'
Henry thanked him lamely24.
'Of course I shan't play in it myself,' added Mr. Pilgrim, laughing as one laughs at a fantastic conceit25.
'No, naturally not,' said Henry.
[Pg 313]
'Nor will Jane,' said Mr. Pilgrim.
Jane Map was Mr. Pilgrim's leading lady, for the time being.
'And about terms, young man?' Mr. Pilgrim demanded, folding his arms. 'What is your notion of terms?'
Now, Henry had taken the precaution of seeking advice concerning fair terms.
'One pound a performance is my notion,' he answered.
'I never give more than ten shillings a night for a curtain-raiser,' said Mr. Pilgrim ultimatively, 'Never. I can't afford to.'
'I'm afraid that settles it, then, Mr. Pilgrim,' said Henry.
'You'll take ten shillings?'
'I'll take a pound. I can't take less. I'm like you, I can't afford to.'
John Pilgrim showed a faint interest in Henry's singular—indeed, incredible—attitude.
'You don't mean to say,' he mournfully murmured, 'that you'll miss the chance of having your play produced in my theatre for the sake of half a sovereign?'
Before Henry could reply to this grieved[Pg 314] question, Jane Map burst into the room. She was twenty-five, tall, dark, and arresting. John Pilgrim had found her somewhere.
'Jane,' said Mr. Pilgrim sadly, 'this is Mr. Knight26.'
'Not the author of The Plague-Spot?' asked Jane Map, clasping her jewelled fingers.
'Are you the author of The Plague-Spot?' Mr. Pilgrim whispered—'whatever The Plague-Spot is.'
The next moment Jane Map was shaking hands effusively27 with Henry. 'I just adore you!' she told him. 'And your Love in Babylon—oh, Mr. Knight, how do you think of such beautiful stories?'
John Pilgrim sank into a chair and closed his eyes.
'Oh, you must take it! you must take it!' cried Jane to John, as soon as she learnt that a piece based on Love in Babylon was under discussion. 'I shall play Enid Anstruther myself. Don't you see me in it, Mr. Knight?'
'Mr. Knight's terms are twice mine,' John Pilgrim intoned, without opening his eyes. 'He wants a pound a night.'
[Pg 315]
'He must have it,' said Jane Map. 'If I'm in the piece——'
'But, Jane——'
'I insist!' said Jane, with fire.
'Very well, Mr. Knight,' John Pilgrim continued to intone, his eyes still shut, his legs stretched out, his feet resting perpendicularly28 on the heels. 'Jane insists. You understand—Jane insists. Take your pound, I call the first rehearsal29 for Monday.'
Thenceforward Henry lived largely in the world of the theatre, a pariah's life, the life almost of a poor relation. Doxey appeared to enjoy the existence; it was Doxey's brief hour of bliss30. But Henry, spoilt by editors, publishers, and the reading public, could not easily reconcile himself to the classical position of an author in the world of the theatre. It hurt him to encounter the prevalent opinion that, just as you cannot have a dog without a tail or a stump31, so you cannot have a play without an author. The actors and actresses were the play, and when they were pleased with themselves the author was expected to fulfil his sole function of wagging.
[Pg 316]
Even Jane Map, Henry's confessed adorer, was the victim, Henry thought, of a highly-distorted sense of perspective. The principal comfort which he derived32 from Jane Map was that she ignored Doxey entirely33.
The preliminary rehearsals34 were desolating
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