CHAPTER XXVI
THIS conference, of which the finest flower had been the "Eve song" and "The Policeman's Sonata," had taken place on the Wednesday after what was now called, without reservation, the "bust-up" of the "Eleanor" show; but it might have taken place on any other day of that week or almost any day of the week following.
To Bellsmith it had been a source of amazement to find how simply the company did actually settle into its altered status. Like most persons unaccustomed to trouble, he had fully looked for the end of the world after Saturday night. Rising, the next morning, from a tossing five hours in bed, he had had a strong inclination not even to shave. From personal humiliation one can frequently understand the drift toward sackcloth and ashes. The sound of Annie running the vacuum- cleaner in the upper halls had seemed to Bellsmith distinctly a false note, one unpleasantly out of key with the sense of abasement made fitting by the occasion.
When, however, he had discovered that the lemon-colored sun really had risen in the east and that outside the windows the crowds on Main Street were gabbling along to nine o'clock mass or hurrying sternly home with their Sunday papers, it had begun to dawn on him that the world might still go on after all and that he himself might still take some small part in it. After coffee and marmalade (and, on better judgment, the shave) he had even begun to feel brisk and ambitious.
There had been one relieving feature of the morning—that he himself had not been obliged to attend that eleven o'clock assembly at the Lyceum Theater when the news was broken to the members of the company. That had been agreed upon the previous evening.
"You leave 'em to me," Barnes had insisted. "You leave 'em' to me. I know that bunch like a book, and they 'll do whatever I tell 'em."
Wholly regardless of the nature of the news which he had to impart, the barrack lawyer in Barnes had quite looked forward to appearing before his associates, clothed at last in actual authority. After that conference it would be difficult to believe that Barnes had not deliberately brought about the wreck of the "Eleanor" show in order to reorganize it on his own finer suggestions.
Bellsmith's part had been to see Dr. MacVickar the first thing on Monday morning and ascertain whether or not he could be assured of five thousand dollars from some source which would not require the pledging of any of his property held up by the Pilgrim Trust Co.
It cannot be truthfully said that Dr. MacVickar had felt any great sense of risk in agreeing, if necessary, to pledge all the property he had in the world, reserving, of course, his stethoscope and the little round plate that he sometimes wore on his forehead to peer into people's tonsils.
"Since I got you into this mess," he declared, "I suppose that I have got to get you out of it, or, rather, get you in still deeper, which has been my purpose from the first."
"Just the same," added the doctor, "it all shows the uncertainty of human affairs. Here I was relying on your case to give me a trip to the Continent."
Then, as frequently happened, a certain professional instinct froze him up sharply and he added: "Now, for heaven's sake, please don't ever repeat that remark even as a joke. The world does not understand jokes, and a physician is hedged about with far more restrictions than a clergyman."
Bellsmith also took the occasion of this call to ask details about Tilly Marshall but again a professional code had seized upon Dr. MacVickar.
"Young man," he admonished, "there are certain sides of my practice which must always remain a closed book to you. Just because your own case proved to be so much of an afternoon tea-party you must n't suppose that a nerve specialist does not sometimes have to dabble pretty deep in the human frame. If you must, look up 'neurosis' and 'psychosis' in your encyclopedia when you get home. Miss Marshall is an instance of the one and you are an instance of the other. If things had gone on as they were, two or three weeks longer. Miss Marshall would have been a very sick little girl."
Bellsmith had, however, drawn out the envelope which had been given him on the preceding Saturday evening by Israels and explained its contents. Dr. MacVicker undertook its transmission willingly enough.
"And if," added Bellsmith, rather shame-faced, "there are to be more of these, it can be understood that the company is still in active existence?"
"0h, quite!" replied Dr. MacVickar.
The adjustment of the "Eleanor" company itself had worked out in a manner very similar to that of Tommy Knight's birthday party—by a process of natural selection.
As Barnes had prophesied, Maida Maine, the prima donna, approached in private conference on Sunday morning, had listened to the new proposal with high scorn and hot indignation. It had never been even necessary to hint that there was a plan to give her part to Tilly Marshall. Remain in a "fit-up" company, owned by an amateur, controlled largely by Charlie Barnes! She should say not! She had left for New York by the noon train, maid, sables, and diamonds.
Poor Maida Maine! By the bitterness of ironical fate she was destined to be the only member of the company who would suffer greatly by the collapse of the "Eleanor" show which, above all others, she was so perfectly willing to abandon.
Honest and decent enough but handsome merely in the sense that she was imposing, Maida Maine was one of those many women on the American stage who have been touted into a factitious fame for which there never seems to be any real explanation. In her case there was little more than the reputation for a "magnificent figure." It would be difficult to imagine a more hideous way in which to be famous, but Maida Maine took it with profound solemnity. Almost every one in the theatrical world knew that for years she had been professionally "slipping," but none of this had ever pierced the barriers of her own dull complacency. She literally believed that her every move was as diligently watched by the public as the moves of a cabinet minister. She had no idea but that on her return to New York she would only have to announce her presence to almost any producer in order to be sent out at the head of some new enterprise built up around her "personality." There is one happy thing that can be said about Maida Maine; in her prosperous years she had fortunately saved a good deal of money.
[Missing paragraph(s) in the original publication]
an unnecessary feature of the theater. On leaving the "Eleanor" company he went immediately back into "big time" vaudeville, where, appearing in evening clothes and singing sentimental ballads exactly suited to his bleating tenor, he had already accumulated a large and lacrymose following.
The loss of these two stars reduced the weekly pay roll of the "Eleanor" company by the sum of five hundred and fifty dollars a week, a fact which had been foreseen by Charlie Barnes much more vividly than by Bellsmith, who had merely regarded the two as artistic nuisances. It also reduced the principals to a much more tractable body. "A cozy mixed foursome and one in the bye," as Bellsmith suggested, for in the new "Eleanor," as in the old, Elsie Winner figured largely as a simple Nerissa and Celestine Trip played her part of the hectoring duchess almost unaltered.
Of all those who remained, the case of Israels was the most inexplicable, for he had had complete intentions of leaving the show from the very first minute that Bellsmith had taken it over; but when that same show had moved from merely potential failure to actual collapse, he suddenly decided to stand by the ship. It would be interesting to know his actual reasons. Charlie Barnes had his own suspicions, but events completely disproved them. One must be fairer to Israels than that for, as the hard days of reorganization went on, the show had no more willing henchman.
It was curious, though, to watch the slow transition in Israels's point of view from that of a representative of Harcourt & Gay to that of an independent ally of Bellsmith. When he came up to Bellsmith's house on the first Sunday he was still wholly the former.
"Well, Mr. Bellsmith," he said, "so you 're still sticking."
Bellsmith nodded. He knew well enough that Israels had not come primarily to discuss the reorganization of "Eleanor."
The manager rubbed his hands and looked around the room in order to allow the proper interval for an important proposal.
"Mr. Bellsmith," he said, "I 've had another talk on the wire with Harcourt & Gay this morning. They 'll give you ten thousand dollars—take the show right off your hands to-morrow."
Bellsmith shook his head. His own point of view had changed since talking, an hour before, with Charlie Barnes, and also since eating marmalade. At certain hours on the previous evening he would have been glad enough if any one had offered to take the show off his hands for nothing, but now ten thousand dollars for all his worries seemed contemptibly miserable.
"Fifteen?" suggested Israels, but he himself knew that it was a tactical error.
By the middle of the week the change in his point of view had already set in. He called Bellsmith aside during one of the morning rehearsals that had begun again at the Lyceum Theater.
"Mr. Bellsmith," he said, very confidentially, "Harcourt & Gay are trying to get me to see you again about buying back the show. I think they 're beginning to understand now that it is n't so easy. They 're throwing out hints about twenty thousand—perhaps twenty-five."
The last week before the show finally started out on the road again he came to Bellsmith in contemptuous glee.
"Mr. Bellsmith," he said, "they want to know if we'd talk to a guy if they sent him up from New York. Fellow named Williams. I know him."
He winked both eyes at once. "They did n't say much, but I 've got a good hunch that, if they had to, they'd give us back every cent we put into it. I told them 'nothing doing'!"
For, as the days and the weeks went on, even Charlie Barnes became convinced that Israels knew no more than he or Bellsmith did of what lay behind these mysterious proposals. There could be no question at all that Harcourt & Gay had been delighted at the original chance to unload. What had happened since? What could have happened since? There was nothing even in Charlie Barnes's experience that could tell them. They were to remain for some months unenlightened, for with Israels's last ultimatum the proposals terminated abruptly.
For the first three days of its vacation in Leicester, the "Eleanor" show was virtually at a standstill. What work was done was done by Israels. With the ease which he had promised, he canceled the booking and made arrangements to store the properties in the Lyceum. On Tuesday or Wednesday, convinced that Bellsmith was really in earnest, he took off his coat and reduced the mechanical force to a skeleton organization. Nothing that Israels was ever to do impressed Bellsmith so deeply as did his complete nonchalance in discharging people. In the whole history of the Bellsmith family probably not more than three employees had ever been actually discharged, and the memories of those three occasions had lurked in the household like unhappy nightmares. With Israels it was entirely different.
"Ike," he said one morning to one of the electricians. "I guess you'd better get through to-morrow."
The man looked up with a nonchalance as complete as his own. "I get until Saturday night, don't I?"
"Oh, yes," said Israels, "we 'll give you that, but there's no use your hanging around any longer."
Pending reorganization, the chorus people were promised full pay and simply turned out to pasture. For two or three days vague, wandering groups of them flooded the parks and sidewalks of the city. One of the stage-hands even entered deeply enough into Leicester life to get himself arrested, but after the first faint novelty of the thing the wealthiest of them began to take surreptitious trips to New York. The rest celebrated their release from theatrical grind by spending all their time in the theater.
The actual plan on which the show was revised proved eventually to be very much the one first outlined by Charlie Barnes. Crude and in parts ridiculous, nevertheless in general form it remained remarkably unassailable. But, having once given voice to his great inspiration, poor Charlie Barnes, in a curious and sudden relapse, became, for creative purposes, absolutely worthless. It may really be that every man has one story locked up in his heart. It may be that, in his fury for saving the last great chance of his life, the little clown had been propelled beyond the pinnacle of his normal intelligence, but the fact remained that after that one big burst his daily suggestions became increasingly hackneyed and puerile. Happily the original inspiration had been caught and pinned down, and as it took shape in mellower hands it was not in Charlie Barnes to realize that it was not still entirely his own conception.
In Jake Ziegler, the leader of the orchestra, Charlie Barnes had a curious parallel. Ziegler was a willing and friendly little Austrian with the appearance of a waiter and very much the manners of one. Like most conductors of theater orchestras he had, at first sight, a marvelous musical training, which, however, wore thin or stopped short at the most incredible moments. It was not that, like Charlie Barnes, he was unschooled in the classics of his profession. He had passed through the conservatoire in his own country, but the process had apparently left him untouched by one atom of musical imagination. There is something startling in this suggestion, for while we expect a boy to go through college without learning a thing we always take it for granted that when a man has passed through a "conservatory" he knows all that there is to know about music.
Pitch and tempo were Ziegler's sole concentrations. From his conductor's desk he could read absolutely anything at sight, but unless he had heard it first he could read nothing with the faintest conception of its real intention. On the other hand, once shown (and most delightfully amazed at what had been revealed to him), he could conduct it a thousand times in spirited repetition, just faintly lacking the one touch of comprehension needed to make it intellectual. This was hardly the man who could be of much help in arranging a fantastic and highly facetious score. In the end the kindly old gentleman who had given Bellsmith his first lessons in harmony did it, and, as his theatrical experience progressed, Bellsmith, for his part, grew to have less and less faith in the theater's mute, inglorious Paganinis.
Surdam, lazy, indifferent Pete Surdam, was the real bulwark of that reorganization, for if the collapse of "Eleanor" had marked the end of Maida Maine's career, that same collapse had dynamited Pete Surdam into his great opportunity. Drifting along, half contemptuous of his work and yet too indifferent to seek any other, the bizarre conditions of the new "Eleanor" company were just sufficient to form the bridge between what he had always been content to do and what he had always dreamed of doing. Surdam's nominal superior had been absent from the company at the time of Bellsmith's purchase. He had been one of Harcourt & Gay's right-hand men, directing two shows at once. There had never been a question of his coming back, and the reorganization had fallen directly on Surdam's shoulders.
To Bellsmith it was fascinating to watch him at work, for if "Eleanor" had previously had little manuscript, in Pete Surdam's hands the book became of less importance than ever. Surdam was an artist who worked in large chunks, pulling things out and putting them in by handfuls. To Barnes, to Ziegler, and indeed to the whole company he talked in code: "Jake, all that stuff in the third verse is out entirely. Run it in after the second encore." "Now, people, business of looking over the wall. Ready, Elsie. 'O girls, where is my father?'"
For Bellsmith, however, there began to come up another matter more pressing than watching rehearsals. Saturday night was pay night and it was not his intention to draw on the doctor's funds unless absolutely necessary. In Israels's proposals from New York, the amused young lawyer whom Bellsmith had engaged to fight his battle for freedom began to see an interesting new angle.
"It seems to me," he remarked one day, "that if that firm in New York is so anxious to buy your show back you ought not to have much difficulty in persuading the court that you used your funds with a good deal of wisdom."
The attorney also made a suggestion which, on the day before the hearing, Bellsmith passed on to Dr. MacVickar.
"Doctor, if this thing actually comes to trial, my lawyer suggests that you go on the stand as an alienist. You could certainly swear that at the time of my riotous and profligate acts I was under your care and that you knew me to be in a sound mental condition."
But the doctor shook his head.
"No," he replied, "it would hardly be wise to inform the court that you were even under observation by an alienist. Also, if I should testify on your side, the other side would simply bring in another alienist to swear that you were a blithering idiot. Wise men in my trade don't care very much to go before the courts in these days. Three expert alienists on each side, one lot swearing black and one swearing white: that seems to be the usual court procedure."
The doctor looked at his patient thoughtfully.
"And as to that," he added, "I don't think that you 're going to have a great deal of trouble. Even a doctor can do a little inquiring around. I should be very much surprised if by to-morrow night you could not spend all the money you want."
The doctor was right. About four o'clock the next day the court reporter appeared in the "Courier" office.
"That injunction against young Bellsmith," he announced to the city editor. "It's been dissolved at the motion of the trust company. What shall I do? Play it up for half a column?"
The city editor looked indifferently up from his desk.
"Oh, no," he replied. "Throw it out. Young Bellsmith has played fair with us. He's a good scout. We 'll let him alone for a while until we can run down that tip that he's going to marry Miss Whats-her-name—Tilly Marshall."