The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Old Card

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Old CardThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Old CardAuthor: Roland PertweeRelease date: March 12, 2022 [eBook #67611]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Boni & Liverlight Inc, 1919Credits: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made available by the Internet Archive*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD CARD ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Old CardAuthor: Roland PertweeRelease date: March 12, 2022 [eBook #67611]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Boni & Liverlight Inc, 1919Credits: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made available by the Internet Archive

Title: The Old Card

Author: Roland Pertwee

Author: Roland Pertwee

Release date: March 12, 2022 [eBook #67611]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Boni & Liverlight Inc, 1919

Credits: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made available by the Internet Archive

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD CARD ***

THE OLD CARD

THE OLD CARD

THE OLD CARDBYROLAND PERTWEEBONI   AND   LIVERIGHTNew York1919

THE OLD CARD

BY

ROLAND PERTWEE

BONI   AND   LIVERIGHT

New York1919

Published, 1919,By BONI & LIVERIGHT, Inc.Printed in the U.S.A.

Published, 1919,

By BONI & LIVERIGHT, Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

TOMY SONAND HIS GODFATHERHENRY AINLEY

TO

MY SON

AND HIS GODFATHER

HENRY AINLEY

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

A visit to any modern French Art Gallery will reveal a number of canvases daubed all over with little patches of primary colours, almost as though the picture had been painted with confetti. Assuming you are unaccustomed to this form of application, you will declare against it with insular promptitude. But give the picture a chance—step back and view it from the far wall, and like as not you will find that these chaotic colours have blended and commingled, have ceased to exist as individual items and become merged in a single statement of meaning the artist intended to convey.

It is not always want of a single material that persuades the fashioning of a patchwork quilt. Patchwork, in its way, is as complete as are the green plush curtains that hang so soberly from the lacquered pole in your neighbour’s parlour.

There is a motive in this preamble; I did not leap from a canvas to a patchwork quilt without purpose. When you have read these pages, if so be you have the patience and inclination, you will perceive what that motive is. Let me then forestall the inevitable criticism, “Why, this is but a series of events strung together by a mere thread of personality,” and say at once, “Agreed; but that was the intention.” And I would ask you to hold out the book at arm’s length, get a fair perspective, and admit that it was not possible to deal with the subject otherwise, and that these disjointed clippings tumble together in a kind of united whole.

The life of a touring actor is as no other man’s. It is a series of ever-changing pictures connected only by the Sunday train-journey. The most we can do is to catch a glimpse here and there as he halts upon the Road.

Here, then, are a few such glimpses for your approval or contempt.

Roland Pertwee.

B.E.F.,

France, 1917.

THE OLD CARD

PART I. A FEW ELEMENTS

CHAPTER ITHE BIG CHANCE

Eliphalet Cardomay stepped from his first-class compartment to the platform. Potter, his dresser, having descended from the train while it was still in motion, respectfully held open the carriage door lest his august master should soil his beautiful wash-leather gloves.

It was gratifying to observe how the station porters touched their caps.

On the seat of the compartment he had vacated lay an open suit-case, several brown-paper-covered plays, copies of theEraand theReferee, an umbrella and a travelling cap. It was part of the dresser’s duties to clear up the débris occasioned by Mr. Cardomay. A man who carries in his head all the emotions and all the lines—Hamlet,Richard III.,The Silver King, and countless other rôles of lesser importance—could hardly be expected to give attention to such a trifling matter as his own personal property.

Eliphalet accepted a bundle of letters from an obsequious advance agent, returned, with condescension, the tentative salutes of several members of his company, and passed down the long grey platform with springing step. The yellow smoke of the Midlands was as violets to his nostrils and as balm to his eyes.

With quiet satisfaction he noted how the ticket-collector at the barrier, instead of demanding his ticket, allowed him to pass with a polite “Good morning, Sir.” After all, it is something to be known.

Mr. Cardomay invariably walked to his lodging, thereby giving a large section of his future public the opportunity of studying his features at close range, unadorned by the artifices of the make-up box or the beneficent influences of limelight. This walk also gave him a chance of seeing whether the effect of his billing justified the cost.

For twenty-five years had Eliphalet Cardomay “featured on the road,” and there was little left for him to learn about Provincial Theatrical Management.

The poster which preceded him to town displayed a well-proportioned man, whose head tilted fearlessly upon broad shoulders, and whose eyes shone as with a smouldering fire. A full growth of hair projected from under the curving brim of a Trilby hat. He wore a flowing tie, a fur-collared coat, and in his right hand carried an ivory-topped Malacca cane of original design. It was a striking poster, executed many years before, and everyone who knew it, and knew Eliphalet, marvelled how the original still continued to realise the picture in every detail.

The reader will have judged, and judged rightly, that our hero is one of the Old School—the school of graceful calisthenics, and meticulous elocution—but let him beware of anticipating too far; for, although Eliphalet Cardomay’s histrionics might savour of the obsolete, he will not find in the man himself those traits usually allied to actors of this calibre.

In all his long career no one had ever heard Eliphalet address a fellow-performer as “laddie,” nor a theatrical landlady as “Ma.” Neither did he borrow half-crowns at the Bodega, nor absorb tankards of Guinness’s stout in the wings. In fact, Eliphalet Cardomay was a very estimable fellow, hedged about and wing-clipped by stale conventions of his calling, which, in spite of his bitterly-learnt knowledge of their existence, he was never able to supersede by modern methods.

The almost impertinent disregard for old stage processes and old accepted technique which brings notoriety and admiration to the actor of to-day was as unattainable to Eliphalet as the peak of Mount Parnassus.

Twenty-five years before, a London newspaper had prophesied that he would mature and become big. He did mature, but on the lines of his beginning, and when at last he returned to London—the Mecca of his dreams—he was driven by laughter back to the provinces whence he had come.

In the hearts of provincial playgoers there were still warm places for Eliphalet Cardomay, and the rich cadences of his voice never failed to arouse strange emotions and irrepressible yearnings in the bosoms of impressionable young ladies, who wrote and confided their admiration with surpassing regularity and singular lack of reserve.

To his own company he was always courteous and considerate, but a trifle remote. He wrapped himself about in mystery, and as no one knew exactly how to take him very few made the attempt.

“The public man should always be an enigma.”

He addressed this statement to a very voluble young member of his company, who frequented bars and lavished cigarettes upon total strangers.

“Be mysterious if you wish to succeed,” he continued, developing the theme. “Your never-ceasing ‘Have a spot,’ and your ever-open cigarette-case, are the most obvious things that ever happened.”

Naturally Eliphalet Cardomay was looked upon as something of a joke. A man with a name like that could hardly expect anything else. Yet to him the name Eliphalet, which his sire, a once-distinguished tragedian, had borne before him, was one of his most cherished possessions. Like a blare of trumpets it rang out from a hundred hoardings. It was electric—original—arresting. A title to juggle with; and yet, so strange is the human mind, so averse to aught but the copper coinage of the language, that his few intimate friends and the inner circles of all provincial Green Rooms knew, spoke and thought of him by no other appellation than “The Old Card.”

Let it be clearly understood that no one called him the Old Card to his face; for, although regarded as a joke, Eliphalet was clearly loved by his fellows, and if at times they indulged in the gentlest of leg-pulling there was not one amongst them who would willingly have caused him the slightest pain or distress.

But to return to our hero, striding briskly over the cobble streets on the particular Sunday morning on which our narrative opens. Every feature of the ugly midland town was familiar to him and every feature good. Taking a turning to the right, he pursued his way through a narrow and deserted alley between two factories. There was an acute angle a little further down, and here on a wall facing him a full-length prototype of himself had been posted.

Eliphalet stopped and saluted his printed image.

“Old boy,” he said, “we are back—back home again. I deserted you for a while—a little while—but I’ve learnt my lesson, old friend, and we will see the rest of the show out together.”

There was a tremor in his voice as he spoke the words and an unnatural mist before his eyes. It was this same mist, perhaps, that delayed his noticing that the billsticker had applied the last sheet of the poster at least ten inches too high, with the result that the feet were practically attached to the knees. Mr. Cardomay made a note of the fact in a small book he carried for the purpose and continued his walk.

Two factory girls nudged each other as he passed them by.

“See who it was? Mister What-you-call Cardomay.”

“Oh, I like ’im. ’E’s good! When’ll we go?”

The rest of their remarks drifted out of earshot, but Eliphalet Cardomay felt a tinge of pride warming his bosom. He was back again—back home.

The excellent Mrs. Booker, best of landladies, greeted him with every indication of respectful devotion.

“It’s a treat to see you again, sir, it is indeed,” she said, opening the door of the comfortable little parlour, where a jolly fire was burning in the grate and reflecting its rays on many framed and autographed photographs of the celebrated artists the room at one time or another had accommodated.

“When I heard you’d gorn to London, I said to Booker, ‘There! we’ve lorst ’im,’ and ’e says, ‘I believe we ’ave,’ and I says, ‘That’s what we ’ave done; for, depend on it, if London gets hold of ’im, it’ll claim ’im as their own and never let ’im go.’ ”

Eliphalet’s lips tightened a little. He drew off his gloves and cast them on the embossed green plush sofa, and quoted:

“The clinging magic runs,They will return as strangers,They will remain as sons.”

“The clinging magic runs,They will return as strangers,They will remain as sons.”

“The clinging magic runs,They will return as strangers,They will remain as sons.”

“The clinging magic runs,

They will return as strangers,

They will remain as sons.”

“I returned as a son—and could not remain as a stranger.” Then, observing that his remarks were entirely lost upon his audience, he concluded:

“Did you get me a small leg of lamb, Mrs. Booker?”

She nodded gravely.

“A beautiful leg,” she replied; “with a black-currant tart to follow. I ’aven’t forgotten your little likes, sir.”

Eliphalet smiled beatifically.

“You are an excellent good woman,” he said. Then, stretching himself luxuriously, “Yes, there is no doubt at all—it is very good to be back again.”

He cast a loving and possessive eye over the homely surroundings, shook out his table napkin, and drew up a chair to the table, as a king might sit at a banquet.

Probably the reader is wondering what this story is all about, and certainly it might have been a distinct advantage to have begun at the beginning rather than the end. Having committed ourselves so far, however, there is no option but to retrace our steps to a period some three months prior to the foregoing incident.

It was at the conclusion of a long tour that Eliphalet Cardomay received a startling proposal from London that he should appear in the title-part in Oscar Raven’s dramatisation of the Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini.

For weeks past the production had been boomed in all the dramatic columns, and the advertised cast practically made a corner in the biggest stage stars of the day.

Sir Owen Frazer, Actor-Manager and Knight (with danger of becoming a baronet), was to have appeared as Cellini, and had favoured several reporters with extensive interviews in which he sought to convey to the public mind the depths of his research into Cellini’s character. He had even gone to the length of growing a real beard for the part, rather than relying on the good offices of Mr. Clarkson. Therefore, when at the eleventh hour his voice entirely forsook him, and Harley Street unanimously declared that it would forsake him altogether unless he gave it a rest for a month, consternation in dramatic circles ran very high indeed.

Eight days existed before the much-advertised first night, and the finding of a fitting successor was at once the most baffling and the most urgent affair.

After an all-night sitting, in which the name of every prominent male member of the profession was suggested, and in which Mr. Oscar Raven and his part collaborator, Julian Franks, nearly came to blows with every member of the Syndicate, each other included, the producer, a young man whose youth was only exceeded by his brilliance, rose and standing, flamingo-like, on one leg, addressed the meeting.

“For God’s sake, get to bed,” he said. “You are talking bilge, the whole lot of you. I’ll find someone—in fact, I have already. You will say I am mad,” he continued, in response to a chorus of inquiries which greeted his statement, “but even at so great a risk I will tell you his name. It is Eliphalet Cardomay.”

Raymond Wakefield was quite right when saying they would accuse him of madness. Sir Owen Frazer wrote on a piece of paper the opinion that he was probably dangerous as well. But Wakefield only laughed.

“Commend me to authors for stupidity and to syndicates for lack of intelligence,” he observed. “It is evident none of you have the smallest acquaintance with the character of Cellini or the art of Eliphalet.”

“But the man can’t act.”

“My dear Raven!” expostulated Wakefield. “The man never ceases to act.”

“But not the kind we want,” from Franks.

“It will be my duty to stop him acting.”

“He has no brains,” contributed Sir Owen, more by gesture than sound.

“I, on the other hand, have plenty,” the producer modestly remarked. “Just consider the character of Cellini, and what do we find? Conceit, bombast. Probably he had a beautiful voice, certainly a chivalrous manner, unquestionably an incapacity to realise his own ineffability. Turn to Eliphalet and you find the exact prototype.Compris?”

“By George, yes!” said Julian Franks.

But Oscar Raven stretched out a silencing hand.

“Does this man Cardomay strike you as the kind of personality that could ever have achieved the masterpieces which came from the hand of Cellini?”

“Well, of course, that is pure rot,” returned Wakefield. “That was where Frazer was all over the place in the part. Trying to convey an undercurrent of massive brain-power. Believe me, the work of great artists is entirely spontaneous—they carry no stamp of genius. Look at Raven, for instance! He has written quite a remarkably good play. Does his exterior suggest it? No. Anyone’d mistake him for a haberdasher’s assistant. But I’m off to bed. Fix it up amongst yourselves.”

And that was how Eliphalet Cardomay was dragged from the provinces and hurled into the forefront of the London stage, with a great part and eight days in which to study it.

As the train bore him towards the Metropolis, he repeated over and over to himself:

“It has come at last. They want me.”

His mind flew back to the old press-cutting of twenty-five years ago. “One day this young man will mature and become big.”

“We’ll show ’em, old boy!” he said. Yet behind it all was a strange fear—a queer, nervous doubt—the same doubt which had ever stood between him and his cherished dreams of appearing in the West End with a production of his own. He had never taken the plunge—he had never swum across the Thames from the Surrey side, and it is probable he never would have done. But now the great ones had stretched out their hands and said, “Come over.”

London is a chilling place to the stranger, and Eliphalet felt the chill almost before his foot touched the platform. There was no genial cap-touching from the porters—no polite salutation from the official at the ticket-barrier. He took a cab. There was no particular point in walking—he could scarcely expect to be recognised.

Fur-coated and Trilby-hatted, Eliphalet Cardomay entered the stage-door of the Duke of Connaught’s and mixed with the company. It was curious what little notice was taken of him. He might have been nobody. Presently a business-manager came and asked if he were Mr. Cardomay, and, learning this was the case, carried him off to an office near the roof to sign contracts and discuss details.

“I shall require my own poster to be used,” said Eliphalet.

The business manager shook his head. “Sorry,” was all he said. Then added, “Reiter is doing the posters, you see.” It was said so conclusively that argument was out of the question.

Eliphalet fell back on his second line of defences.

“I take it that my name will come first on the bills.”

“No. Characters in order of their appearance is the way we are working it. Shall we get back to the stage?”

He was led down through countless corridors until they arrived at their destination. Here Oscar Raven came forward and introduced him to several of his fellow-players.

“Let’s get at it,” came a voice from the stalls. “How de do, Mr. Cardomay. You’ve read the part, I suppose?”

“I have not only read the part,” he replied, “I have studied the first act.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Wakefield cheerfully replied. “You may have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Here, wait a bit. I’ll come up.”

Eliphalet turned in surprise to the author.

“Who is that very young man?” he demanded.

“Raymond Wakefield—our producer,” replied Raven, as one who spoke of the gods.

“Indeed?” with raised eyebrows.

Just then Wakefield appeared through the iron door and skated on to the stage.

“I meant to read it to you first,” he said, without any preamble. “But never mind. Now, what’s your idea of the part?”

Mr. Cardomay had never been cross-examined before, and didn’t like it; but he replied, politely enough:

“It’s a very good part.”

“Yes, yes; but I mean, how are you taking it? Comedy, tragedy, farce?”

“There can scarcely exist two opinions, Mr. Wakefield, Cellini is a great thinker—a poet—a philosopher.”

“Lord, no! Light comedy is what we want; light comedy to the verge of farce.”

“Mr. Wakefield, I do not appreciate jokes in regard to my work.”

Here Raven intervened with, “You are so extreme, my dear Raymond. After all, Cellini was a great artist, and in my conception——”

“Look here, Raven,” said Wakefield, running his fingers through his pinky-yellow hair, “you’ll have to stop away from rehearsals if you can’t shake those absurd ideas from your brain. The Cellini I want, and mean to have, is the man who hadliaisonswith his models, committed murders, and yet was an artistmalgré lui. You see what I mean?” He fired the query at Eliphalet. “You’ve read the biography, of course?”

“I have little leisure for reading,” replied the actor, feeling a trifle dazed.

“You must do so at once, then. Come on, and I’ll go over some passages with you now at the Savage. Reynolds, take the crowd scenes—we’ll be back by two.” And he gripped Eliphalet to whisk him away.

But Eliphalet Cardomay would not allow himself to be hustled.

“Mr. Wakefield,” he said, “I have eight days in which to study a long and important role. I do not choose to squander any of these precious hours in profitless discussion. Let us proceed to rehearse at once.”

This was mutiny—rank mutiny. It is doubtful whether the great Sir Owen Frazer, at present seated at the back of the stalls, would have presumed to say as much.

Raymond Wakefield’s cherubic face went into a series of straight lines. He had never before been openly defied and his sense of humour deserted him. It deserted him for eight consecutive days, during which time he gave Eliphalet Cardomay every kind of hell. Unmindful of the very characteristics which had prompted him to make the engagement, he caught up every stereotyped inflexion, each elaborate gesture, and subjected it to the most rigorous criticism, analysis and correction. In justice it should be admitted that, according to modern standards, there was a very sound reason for all his suggestions. Raymond Wakefield was never at a loss for reasons. He kept up a running fire of interrogation as to what Eliphalet was driving at, and Eliphalet never could answer.

“Why chant that passage as though it were a hymn, when the whole intention of the line is—Ouch! You speak the stuff like the ancients spoke blank verse. There! When you are telling Pietro to bring you ‘raw gold’—you say ‘raw gold’ as though it were something sacred and divine. My dear fellow, it’s the stuff you’re working in every day of the week. Try and imagine yourself a plumber saying to his mate, ‘Get us a lump of putty, Jack.’ ”

At first Eliphalet resented this treatment hotly, but he was no match for this electric young man. On the third day of rehearsals he had been so ill-advised as to retort.

“You forget that I was acting many years before you were thought of.” He regretted the words almost before he had spoken them.

That night he sat down on his bed and reviewed the whole affair. His belief in himself was shattered. He realised that all the painful years of acquired technique were valueless. His entire stock-in-trade had been exploded and held up to ridicule by a young man who could scarcely need to shave more than twice a week. And the worst of it was that his resentment for that young man had died, and in his heart he confessed that all and everything he had been told was good and true and right, and that his own methods were bad and false and wrong.

Next morning he did a very gracious act. He apologised to Raymond Wakefield and promised to do his best in the future. Unhappily, the apology came at an inopportune moment. Both authors had been reviling Wakefield for letting them down, and had declared that the play would be ruined as a result of his casting. They insisted that Cardomay must be got rid of and the production postponed. Wakefield never admitted himself at fault, and a stormy scene resulted. Eventually Sir Owen Frazer was appealed to, and, to the general astonishment, he wrote on a sheet of paper, his voice being inoperative, that if either or both of the suggestions were carried out he would institute proceedings against everyone concerned. Being lessee of the theatre, nothing more could be said at the time, but subsequently Messrs. Raven and Franks foregathered and spoke hard words anent Sir Owen—who, they declared, being unable to play the part himself, desired nothing better than to see it mutilated.

One can understand, therefore, why Eliphalet’s apology was not so well received as it deserved. In fact, all that Raymond Wakefield said was:

“Glad to hear it, for we’ve any amount of lost ground to make up.”

The hours and days that followed were pitiful to the point of tragedy. The Old Card worked like a dray horse at the new art of being natural, which, despite his utmost effort, further and further eluded him. At the last dress-rehearsal there was not a line nor a movement, from start to finish, which fitted him anywhere.

Both authors left the theatre in a state of speechless fury at the end of the second act, and when the curtain fell on the final scene of the play, Raymond Wakefield just looked at him, shook his head, and followed their example.

Eliphalet Cardomay, a perfect picture in his Florentine robes, stood like a statue in the middle of the deserted stage. An overmastering desire possessed him to hide his head and cry like a child in some dark recess. He moved unsteadily toward the prompt corner. The iron door beside it was open, and there, in the brightly-lit corridor leading to the Royal Box, stood Sir Owen Frazer, and he was laughing—laughing, it seemed, as a man had never laughed before.

Until that moment his feelings had been entirely of self-reproach. He had acquired the bitter knowledge that a great chance had been given him—the chance for which he had waited all his life—and he—he couldn’t deal with it. To-morrow evening the public would witness an exhibition so execrable, so vile, that the veriest tyro might be ashamed of giving it. But the sight of Sir Owen Frazer’s mirth brought about an instant metamorphosis. The self-reproach vanished, to be supplanted by a dull and smouldering rage.

With compressed lips he made as if to approach the Knight; then, turning about, he swept superbly from the stage.

Back at his hotel he came to a great decision. Failure on the morrow was certain. Well, fail he might, but not on the lines of Raymond Wakefield’s laying. London should see Eliphalet Cardomay play Cellini on his own methods—play it, in fact, just as he had played “The Silver King,” and a hundred other creations.

A rehearsal was called for his especial benefit next day, but he telephoned to say that he had no intention of being present.

Raymond Wakefield got into a cab and set forth to see what it was all about. He found his quarry, arrayed in a gorgeous kimono, discussing a late breakfast.

“Look, here, Mr. Cardomay,” he began, “do you consider this is fair?”

Eliphalet motioned him to a chair and placed cigarettes within easy reach.

“My dear young Mr. Raymond Wakefield,” he said, choosing his words with slow deliberation, “I have no intention to rehearse again, because it would be useless. You, with unexampled brilliance—and, believe me, no one is more sensible of your admirable gifts than I am—have devoted an entire week in a fruitless endeavour to teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Doubtless grandmothers should know how to perform this delicate ritual, doubtless it is expedient and is expected of them; but many are too old to learn, and, right or wrong, prefer to decapitate the ova with a table knife and assimilate its albuminous contents with the aid of a teaspoon. I have done my best, and have failed—confessedly, I have proved an inept pupil, and, to complete the metaphor, have dribbled the yolk and the white all over my waistcoat like a child that knows no better.”

“My dear chap,” exclaimed Raymond Wakefield, striking one hand against the other, “if only you would play Cellini as you are talking now, I’d turn into a door-mat for you to wipe your feet on. Now, let’s run over it just once more.”

But Eliphalet Cardomay was adamant.

The Duke of Connaught’s Theatre was packed to overflowing for the opening performance of “Benvenuto Cellini.” Incidentally, every member of the dramatic profession, not otherwise engaged, made it a duty to be present, some even going to the extremity of paying for their seats.

The news that something unusual in the way of acting was likely to occur had spread with the rapidity of a fire. Be it said that most of his fellow-players were heartily sympathetic with Eliphalet for the failure they were confident he would make, but their sympathy did not take the form of staying away.

Before the curtain rose, each member of the company came forward to wish him luck, and he, with old-world courtesy, thanked them all and waited, apparently unmoved, for his cue.

The first scene in which he was to appear was a very Rabelaisian interlude wherein he made love, of a base kind, to his model. At rehearsals he had been worse in this than in any other part of the play. His efforts to acquire a light touch had been little short of bricklayer’s pastry, and the poor girl with whom the scene took place was in an agony of dread at the coming ordeal. What was her amazement, then, when Eliphalet Cardomay acted the whole racy interlude as though he were reading a lesson from the Bible.

At first the audience did not know what to make of it, the reading was so utterly at variance with the lines. Then, like a wave, it struck them that here was originality at its highest. Here in these full-throated accents, these absurd parsonic gestures, was a brilliant satirical reading—a fragment of exquisite characterisation.

There was an ovation when Eliphalet left the stage.

In the author’s box Sir Owen Frazer was heard to say, with extraordinary force, considering he had lost his voice, “I’m damned! Damn it!”

Oscar Raven plucked Wakefield by the sleeve. “What on earth do you make of it?” he said.

“It will make the play,” came the reply.

“But I can’t understand. Does he know what he’s doing?”

“ ’Course not. Our friend Eliphalet is shirking. He couldn’t do what we wanted, so he’s just turning on the old stuff, the old provincial tap.”

“Then please Heaven,” came from Franks, “he keeps up the flow till the end.”

And he did. All the bad provincial fake was reeled off—mere vocalisation and attitudinising, utterly misplaced, fitting the part nowhere, and for that very reason accepted by the high-browed Press and the novelty-seeking public as one of the finest dramatic conceptions of the day.

The Press raved about it. They went into ecstasies over the Art of Eliphalet and his “epic cynicism.” “Why had this marvellous depictor been denied to London?” they cried. “Doubtless,” said one, “much praise is due to the intellect of Mr. Wakefield, the brilliant producer, but for the actor himself no adulation could be too strong.”

And the “brilliant young producer” kicked himself heartily in that the praise should have been due to him for casting Eliphalet as Cellini, but that he had forfeited all claim thereunto by losing sight of his original intention out of pique.

The wonderful notices were brought to Eliphalet on the following morning as he lay in bed, and very gravely he read them through—and understood. There was no triumph in his eyes—the meaning of those cuttings was too clear. To Eliphalet they spelt failure, not fame. The words “epic cynicism” rang through his brain. Epic cynicism?—Yes, it was just that. And instead of rising, as for years he had dreamed he would do, and saying to his image in the glass, “Eliphalet, old boy, we’ve knocked ’em—knocked ’em hard,” he pulled the coverlet over his head and buried his face in the pillow.

“Benvenuto Cellini” ran ten weeks, during which time the secret of Eliphalet’s success was well preserved.

Oddly enough, Sir Owen Frazer, whose voice by this time was restored to him, was singularly free from enthusiasm with regard to the hit hisconfrèrehad made. People even went so far as to say that, had he been a lesser man, they would have suspected him of jealousy. Thus there was a good deal of astonishment when it became known that he had offered Eliphalet Cardomay the second lead in his new production.

Eliphalet received the part in company with an invitation to supper. He went over it very carefully and very suspiciously. Then he put it in his pocket and went forth to seek Raymond Wakefield.

“Read this,” he begged, “and open up your wonderful brain as to its potentialities.”

Raymond did so, and explained with fluency and clarity the thousand subtle intricacies with which the part abounded.

Eliphalet Cardomay nodded gravely.

“Sir Owen Frazer is a very clever man,” he remarked.

On his way back he returned the part, with a polite refusal to sup. In a postscript he added:

“I am returning to the provinces for good. One should never destroy an illusion. You have had your laugh. It was generous of you to wish to share it with the masses.”

Eliphalet Cardomay stepped from his first-class compartment to the platform. Potter, his dresser, having descended from the train while it was still in motion, respectfully held open the carriage door lest his august master should soil his beautiful wash-leather gloves.

Dear me! this sounds strangely familiar. Why, of course! That’s the worst of starting a story at the wrong end.

CHAPTER IIPISTOLS FOR TWO

Let us avoid repetition, and return to Eliphalet Cardomay where we left him at the dining-table, to march backwards to a past episode.

Lack of concentration and cohesion are among the chief snares lying in wait for him who chronicles character rather than plot. One might, of course, hazard, by way of excuse, that the recently recounted reminiscence was of greater interest than a detailed account of a roast leg of lamb followed by black-currant tart would prove. But justifications are always dull. To Eliphalet Cardomay the London episode was a grief unspeakable, whereas the homely repast, consumed in such familiar and well-loved surroundings, was the very reverse.

He finished that black-currant tart unto the final morsel, till naught but the permanganate-coloured stains upon the plate remained in token of its recent being. There was something almost boyish in the liberality of his appetite. In using the term boyish the period of his own youth is not implied, for Eliphalet displayed no youthful traits until his hair was silvered, his brow furrowed, and his eyes deep-set.

There are certain men whose mental condition bears little or no relation to their years, and he was one of them. They are born with grown-up minds, sage and mature convictions, unsuited to youth and only really serviceable when they have reached that time of life with which such gravity accords.

Eliphalet Cardomay, even when a boy, was oppressed with a middle-aged manner and a professional mien. It might truthfully be said that his brain and body did not synchronise until he had passed the forty-year high-water mark. His body, or, to put it more gracefully, his externals, were prepossessing. His broad forehead, swept-back hair, bold eyebrows and dilated nostrils, gave suggestion of virility and power. To a maiden they were productive of second glances, an added colour and a quickening of heart-beats against the ramparts of her corsets. In this well-knit yet æsthetic youth she might be pardoned for presuming there lurked wells of high romance, tempered with humour and a knavish disposition. It was said of him in the company, where he played juvenile leads at two pounds two shillings a week, that he was “deep.” Furthermore, since it was never his custom to boast about deeds of love, the young men with whom his lot was cast credited him with the proclivities of a Lothario and laid to his account many charming indiscretions in the glades of Eros. The older members of the company were wiser, or deemed themselves to be, and decided, not without a certain rough justice, that he was a bit of a prig. For this reason, Harrington May, who specialised in villains of the heavier kind, gave him the title of “Mother’s Boy” and named him as such to his face.

Eliphalet was very grave (he had accomplished the forty-five manner twenty years before he was entitled to it), and replied:

“In so far as I was born of woman your accusation is correct. My mother died, however, when I was a year old. I presume, from your smile, you believe you have said something offensive, but since it is nothing but the truth I cannot allow myself to take umbrage, even though the truth is usually a stranger to your lips.”

For one so young the speech was painfully pedantic, but it succeeded in putting Mr. Harrington May temporarily out of action, and established for Eliphalet a reputation for caustic repartee. He was frequently asked to repeat his words, but this he politely declined to do, thus giving further proof of age before accession to age.

Miss Blanche Cannon, a depictor of adventuresses on the stage and a great Bohemian off, had been present at the contretemps, and was greatly delighted by the young man’s urbanity and calm. It is no infrequent occurrence for opposites to be attracted by each other, and she, with her scatter-brained, love-a-lark disposition, scented in Eliphalet a suitor of possible quality.

He, poor fellow, was quite unaware of this, for his thoughts were centred in Art and a desire to make a mark in dramatic history. Hitherto he had had no dealings with love, and many a maid had languished in vain on that account.

But Blanche was not of the languishing brand. Having decided to ensnare his affections, she set about making inquiries, and was greatly intrigued to learn, from several misinformed, but talkative, young actors, that he was “no end of a dog on the Q.T.” One of them, with an imagination that would have thriven in Fleet Street, went to the length of describing aliaisonwith a certain titled lady, who had become enamoured of Eliphalet from the stalls and had lured him away to a castle, beside which Haddon Hall paled into insignificance. Charmed by these accounts, Blanche Cannon’s desire developed exceedingly, and forthwith she began a tentative archery upon the heart of Eliphalet. It is always your student who proves the easiest prey to the wiles of love, and one day, when she had successfully manœuvred a tête-à-tête tea-party in her own rooms, Eliphalet succumbed, and Blanche, picking up her cue with professional skill, dropped into his arms under a smother of kisses.

Eliphalet was entirely proficient in the art of love-making. It was part of his equipment as an actor. He knew the moment to fold to his bosom the form of an adored one, and how to brush the hair back from her forehead with just sufficient pressure to elevate the chin to the ideal angle for imprinting a kiss. He knew how to drop his voice to a quality of whispering and passionate vibration. All of these services he most faithfully rendered, with one or two minor improvements suggested by a productive mind. Repetition, however, if pursued beyond a given margin, is apt to weary the soul, and after a while Blanche began to yearn for variety, and to doubt if he were indeed the ideal lover. Certain misgivings also arose in his own mind. At first he was enveloped in the wonder of love new-born, but as time went on he was able to detect certain faults in the poetic composition of his destined bride. For instance, she did not respond very rapidly to the Shakespearian atmosphere he diligently sought to produce by passionately-delivered quotations fromRomeo and Juliet. She showed a marked lack of interest in the story of Abélard and Héloise, and a greater enthusiasm at the prospect of a donkey-ride on the New Brighton sands than a lovers’ wander in leafy solitudes. She became sick of holding hands, and more than once told him stories the humour of which would have been better suited to the court of Bluff King Hal.

To a sensitive mind these passages of wit were distasteful, but nevertheless Eliphalet Cardomay remained in love with praiseworthy constancy. He built palaces, masoned and mortared of their united talents, and spoke of the future that should be theirs—a future which would be spoken of in retrospect by posterity. With love and guidance he convinced himself that Blanche would in time come to a fuller understanding of the vast responsibility they jointly held for the furtherance of art. He pictured her as blossoming into a great emotional actress, and to that end tried to dissuade her from over-hilarity in public places, and to attach less importance to such trivial pleasures as ice-creams consumed in small Italian cafés. He spoke of the glory of mutual understanding, reciprocity, and many other long-worded matters, tedious to a person of light-hearted habit.

For her part, Blanche was heartily disappointed that none of the alleged characteristics displayed in the affair of the titled lady had been revealed to her. His behaviour had been of a scrupulous purity, and high-standing little short of ridiculous. It has been said that Blanche was a Bohemian, which implies a taste for the savoury diet. She enjoyed risky friendships—she liked to see the eyes of her lover catch fire and to quell the fire by some cold drench of inconsequent nonsense. That was caviare! There was a relish in such intimacy—but with Eliphalet, and his erotic quotations, there was none. Wherefore, partly to stimulate more vivid emotions, and partly for her own entertainment, she adopted other methods, and in Mr. Harrington May and his natural villainies she found the desired means.

May was a heavily-built man with a hearty laugh and a bullying manner. He bullied his juniors and his lovers alike, and by so doing achieved something of a reputation for manhood. His principle in life was to take his fun where he found it, so, accordingly, when Blanche yearned towards him, he threw an arm around her with a strong man’s zeal.

“Can’t see what you found to amuse you in that young spring poet,” he observed, after the first elaborately-resisted embrace had been achieved.

“Anyway,” returned Blanche, who was a firm believer in tantalising methods, “he scored off you all right.”

Harrington May did not deny the charge, but “I’m scoring off him pretty heavily at the moment,” he said.

When, that night, Eliphalet suggested to Blanche they should take sandwiches and aerated waters and have a picnic in the pleasaunces of Jesmond Dene the following day, she shook her head and declined.

“But my dearest, there will be no rehearsal, and you and I could——”

“I’ve something else to do, I tell you.”

She was very mysterious and roguishly declined to tell him what. Eliphalet, unlike most youths, was not in the least suspicious, but he thought it a strange violation of true love’s laws to harbour secrets. When he observed as much, she put him off with a coquettish toss of the head.

For the next couple of days each proposed meeting met with the same answer, and at last he began to feel angry and injured.

Being of a philosophical mind, this sense of injury found expression in more practical ways than upbraiding hisfiancée. He reflected that, if after so short a time she was able willingly to forego the charms of his company, it was reasonable to expect that serious breaches would arise should they engage upon more enduring relations. This reasoning led to the natural conclusion that Blanche Cannon was not the right woman to fill the post of his wife and helpmeet. It would be better, perhaps, to tell her so at once, rather than increase the embarrassment by untimely delay.

These thoughts were occupying his mind when Blanche herself pushed open his dressing-room door, and, violently rubbing her cheek, stepped inside.

“You are a nice lover, aren’t you?” she began.

“I have tried to be,” he replied evenly.

“Well, you haven’t succeeded. My idea of a lover is a knight in armour who protects his fair lady, not you. You sit down and shut your eyes to what’s going on in front of your nose.”

“I don’t understand, my dear. You had some secrets, and I did not like to intrude on them without your permission.”

“No, and I suppose you’d wait for my permission before going for a man who tried to kiss me.”

Eliphalet rose and compressed his lips.

“No one would dare with the knowledge that we are engaged.”

“Wouldn’t they, just! Well, they just have—at least one has, the vile brute!”

“A member of this company kissed you against your will?”

“Of course.”

“Who?”

“You’d do nothing if I told you.”

“Who?” repeated Eliphalet, very white and calm.

“Harrington May.”

“Thank you. I shall know what to do, my dear. Your honour is quite safe with me; and mine—mine has been outraged.”

He threw open the door and closed it crisply behind him, leaving Blanche looking a little scared. She had not counted on producing the quality of dull anger his face had worn, but thought rather he would fly into a boy’s rage—caress her with a savage intensity and curse the man who had sought to steal her favours. Then she would have told him that the whole thing was a joke, devised to buck him up and make him amusing. Afterwards, they would have gone out and had a jolly good beano. But somehow his looks did not give encouragement for such a recital, and, moreover, she felt a stirring of admiration for the manner in which he had strode to confront his rival.

Eliphalet went straight to Harrington May’s room and entered uninvited.

The leading-man was removing his make-up, and he looked up over the brim of a very dirty towel.

“What d’you want?” he demanded.

And Eliphalet answered coldly enough:

“You are a blackguard—a low, thieving blackguard. A man to whom honour is a thing unknown.”

“That’s very pretty,” said May. “Did you write it?”

“You dared to kiss my future wife.”

Harrington May rubbed his face thoughtfully.

“Oh, and who would that be?”

“I refer to Miss Cannon.”

“Oh, ah! I see. And I’m supposed to have kissed her, am I?”

“Do you deny having done so?”

“Well, I must make quite sure before answering. There’s a note-book in the pocket of that jacket, if you’d pass it over.”

But Eliphalet picked up a pair of gloves and flung them into the leading-man’s face.

“Hey! Go easy! What’s that for?”

“It is a challenge.”

“A challenge, eh? To what?”

“To a duel.”

Harrington May threw back his head and laughed aloud, but for all that he scrutinised Eliphalet shrewdly from the corner of his eye.

“As the challenged party, it is your right to choose the weapons.”

“Ah, yes, so it is. I haven’t fought a duel for a week or two, so I’d forgotten. What do you say to crossbows?—or, if they don’t suit, I’m a pretty good hand with the lasso.”

“The choice lies between pistols and swords.”

May flashed another quick glance. Certainly the young man appeared to be in earnest—but the whole thing was absurd. He was on the point of selecting swords, as the first word to come to hand, but decided hurriedly against doing so. It was conceivable Eliphalet, in the heat of his anger, might snatch up a sword and make a dig at him. In the course of one or two previous productions they had fought a few stage-fights, and Eliphalet Cardomay had rather a pretty knack with a blade. Pistols and the thought of speeding lead would very soon destroy the foolish ideas that were possessing him, thought May; so with a world of dignity he said:

“I choose the trusty old bundook.”

“We will meet at midnight by the ruined mill in Jesmond Dene,” said Eliphalet, and walked sedately from the room.

Harrington May sat motionless awhile, regarding his own image in the glass. He felt oddly cold, and his jaw showed a disposition to tremble.

“Whew!” he said, squaring his shoulders. “This is silly! That young upstart is trying to bounce me. Well, we must come back on him heavily, that’s all.”

He rose and finished dressing.

At the stage-door a few members of the company had gathered, and an inspiration seized him to narrate what had occurred. So, with plenty of noise and a liberal allowance of margin for his own repartee, he recounted the side-splitting exchanges that had led up to the challenge.

“What do you think, boys?” he shouted. “It’s pistols for two, at midnight.”

To a chorus of “No,” “Chuck it,” and “You’re having us on, old man,” he responded:

“Solemn fact, I give you my word. We meet in Jesmond Dene at the witching hour of twelve. Coffee for one at five past.”

Never before had the company enjoyed so rich a jest, and they fell about in ecstasies of rib-punching laughter.

“ ’Course I saw through it,” said May, “though he played his bluff well. I wish some of you had been there. I was as solemn as a judge. Lord! it was funny.”

“D’you think he was bluffing, then?” asked a very young man, whose name was Manning, and who secretly harboured admiration for Eliphalet Cardomay.

“I don’tthinkabout it, darling,” responded May, and was greeted with a fresh burst of merriment, in which all but the aforesaid youngster joined.

“It ’ud be funnier still,” he ventured, “if it turned out that he wasn’t bluffing at all.”

But no one took any notice of that aside.

“What are you going to do, Mr. May?” asked one.

“I shall turn up, of course, dear boy, and, like as not, catch a cold waiting half the night, while our little friend is sleeping in bed. Tell you what: this joke is too big to keep to oneself. I’ll pay the hire of a wagonette, then you can all slip off after the show and see the fun.”

This spirited offer was received with enthusiasm, and the whole company was on the point of repairing to a hostelry to honour the occasion, when Eliphalet Cardomay, carrying a small polished wooden case, came quietly through the stage-door. At his approach the conversation died abruptly, and all eyes were turned upon him.

“Please,” he said, asking for a gangway.

Someone touched his shoulder, and asked:

“Are you fighting a duel to-night, old man?”

“Mr. May will answer that question,” he replied, and passed into the street.

“What did I tell you?” demanded May in his loudest tones. “Isn’t it wonderful, eh?”

“Did you notice what he was carrying?” said very young Mr. Manning.

“Can’t say I did, unless it was a soother.”

“He had that old case of pistols from the property-room.”

“Damn good!” roared May; but the laugh stuck in his throat somehow, and lacked the quality of genuine mirth.

The gifts bestowed by the gods upon Eliphalet Cardomay did not include a very generous measure of humour, or he would scarcely have set about his preparations with such precision and calm. Bearing the case of old pinfire revolvers, he entered a gunsmith’s in High Street, and asked for cartridges.

The shop assistant examined the bore of the weapon and rummaged about among his stock.

“I think these’ll do,” he said, “but it’s an old pattern pistol, and this stuff has been lying around some years. We’ve a range at the back, if you’d care to try a few shots.”

“I should, very much. Perhaps you would lend me a wire bristle—these barrels are a trifle rusty.”

Having little to occupy him, the amiable assistant spent half-an-hour in cleaning up the old weapons, and succeeded in imparting to them a greatly rejuvenated air.

“Don’t get much shooting in your line, do you?” he asked. A provincial shopman recognises, by a kind of second-sight, every touring actor and actress who visits the town.

“I have practised a little,” returned Eliphalet, “for you cannot use a weapon effectively on the stage unless you are acquainted with the right method.”

They descended to the basement, where there was a miniature range, lighted with little whistling gas-jets. The assistant hung a target to a clip and despatched it on a drawn wire to its appointed place. Eliphalet loaded the pistols, and balanced them critically in his hand. Then, laying one aside, he drew a bead and pressed the trigger. The bullet cut the inner line at twelve o’clock.

“Throws up a shade,” he remarked.

His second shot perforated the bull very neatly.

“That’s sound shooting,” exclaimed the astonished assistant. “Try the other one.”

There was little to choose between the two revolvers, and when all ten shots had been fired, the target presented a very pretty pattern.

“You’ve a steady hand. Before I saw this I thought actors lifted their elbows too much to shoot that way. I like your light hold on the butt and the thumb straight with the barrel—it’s stylish.”

Eliphalet thanked him for his praises, paid for fifty cartridges, and after carefully cleaning the two weapons, bade him good afternoon.

He took his meal at a chop-house, and ate but sparingly. When he had finished, he called for paper and an envelope, and wrote a farewell letter to Blanche, to be delivered should misadventure overtake him. It was rather a grandiose composition, in which the word “honour” recurred with some frequency. He placed it in his pocket, paid the bill, and walked to the theatre.

The news of the challenge had spread like wildfire—even the stage hands and cleaners were in possession of every detail. Wherever he went he was followed by curious glances, and often after he had passed explosive but suppressed giggles would break out. It was clear the company was treating the affair as a joke. Personally, he could see very small provocation for laughter, but reflecting that with trivial minds mirth and calamity are close companions, he made no comment. He wondered whether Harrington May would laugh next morning.

Eliphalet had quite made up his mind not to kill his antagonist, but to place a bullet in his thigh, trusting this would prove sufficient punishment to meet with the requirements. He wished almost that the cause of their quarrel had been a woman of finer fibre, but that could not be helped, and the insult to his pride was the same in any case.

The business of the play proceeded on even lines. A private affair could not be allowed to interfere with a public duty; but once or twice he stumbled with his words and missed a cue. Harrington May observed this, was delighted, and noisily declared in the greenroom, during one of his waits, that “Mother’s Boy” was in such alarm that he couldn’t “talk straight.”

The wagonette had been ordered, and towards the end of the play had drawn up in a side street to wait the coming of the revellers. Nearly everyone had brought with them a warm coat or wrap, that the elements might not interfere with their perfect enjoyment.

When the curtain fell on the last act, Eliphalet carefully dressed himself, and was on the point of leaving his room, when Blanche came in.

“You are a little fool, aren’t you?” she said.

It is discouraging for a man about to risk his life for a lady’s sake to be addressed in such terms. It was a time for guerdons and not rebukes.

“In what manner am I a fool, Blanche?”

“Challenging May to a duel, like that. Everyone knows about it, and is laughing about it, too. Now, I suppose you are going to walk home as if nothing has happened. A nice idiot it’ll make me look, and you’ll be the laughing-stock of the theatre for ever.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Why couldn’t you punch his head, like a man, and leave it at that?”

“I do not consider to do so would be punishment enough.”

“Better than all this silly talking.”

“There has been very little talking; indeed, I ought not to be talking now. There is not much time before the—the—appointment.”

Blanche’s eyes sought his face with quick interrogation.

“Cardy!” she exclaimed. “You’re not serious? You don’t really mean to——?”

“Of course I am serious.”

“But—you can’t—you mustn’t!”

“I can and will. There is no going back now. Please.”

But she barred his way.

“No—no—no! I forbid you.”

“Please.”

“Oh, but you’re joking—joking! You couldn’t shoot him—not for that. Besides, you wouldn’t know which end of the pistol to hold.”

A man who is playing a part senior to his years will generally give himself away on a detail. It was sheer youthful arrogance when he drew from his pocket the target he had decorated that afternoon, and cast it on the table before her.

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