The Real Thing and Other Tales

“How in the world do you know what makes a difference to me?” this lady asked, with incongruous coldness, with a haughtiness indeed remarkable in so gentle a spirit.

He saw Violet Grey that night at the theatre, and it was she who spoke first of her having lately met a friend of his.

“She’s in love with you,” the actress said, after he had made a show of ignorance; “doesn’t that tell you anything?”

He blushed redder still than Mrs. Alsager had made him blush, but replied, quickly enough and very adequately, that hundreds of women were naturally dying for him.

“Oh, I don’t care, for you’re not in love with her!” the girl continued.

“Did she tell you that too?” Wayworth asked; but she had at that moment to go on.

Standing where he could see her he thought that on this occasion she threw into her scene, which was the best she had in the play, a brighter art than ever before, a talent that could play with its problem.  She was perpetually doing things out of rehearsal (she did two or three to-night, in the other man’s piece), that he as often wished to heaven Nona Vincent might have the benefit of.  She appeared to be able to do them for every one but him—that is for every one but Nona.  He was conscious, in these days, of an odd new feeling, which mixed (this was a part of its oddity) with a very natural and comparatively old one and which in its most definite form was a dull ache of regret that this young lady’s unlucky star should have placed her on the stage.  He wished in his worst uneasiness that, without going further, she would give it up; and yet it soothed that uneasiness to remind himself that he saw grounds to hope she would go far enough to make a marked success of Nona.  There were strange and painful moments when, as the interpretress of Nona, he almost hated her; after which, however, he always assured himself that he exaggerated, inasmuch as what made this aversion seem great, when he was nervous, was simply its contrast with the growing sense that there were grounds—totally different—on which she pleased him.  She pleased him as a charming creature—by her sincerities and her perversities, by the varieties and surprises of her character and by certain happy facts of her person.  In private her eyes were sad to him and her voice was rare.  He detested the idea that she should have a disappointment or an humiliation, and he wanted to rescue her altogether, to save and transplant her.  One way to save her was to see to it, to the best of his ability, that the production of his play should be a triumph; and the other way—it was really too queer to express—was almost to wish that it shouldn’t be.  Then, for the future, there would be safety and peace, and not the peace of death—the peace of a different life.  It is to be added that our young man clung to the former of these ways in proportion as the latter perversely tempted him.  He was nervous at the best, increasingly and intolerably nervous; but the immediate remedy was to rehearse harder and harder, and above all to work it out with Violet Grey.  Some of her comrades reproached him with working it out only with her, as if she were the whole affair; to which he replied that they could afford to be neglected, they were all so tremendously good.  She was the only person concerned whom he didn’t flatter.

The author and the actress stuck so to the business in hand that she had very little time to speak to him again of Mrs. Alsager, of whom indeed her imagination appeared adequately to have disposed.  Wayworth once remarked to her that Nona Vincent was supposed to be a good deal like his charming friend; but she gave a blank “Supposed by whom?” in consequence of which he never returned to the subject.  He confided his nervousness as freely as usual to Mrs. Alsager, who easily understood that he had a peculiar complication of anxieties.  His suspense varied in degree from hour to hour, but any relief there might have been in this was made up for by its being of several different kinds.  One afternoon, as the first performance drew near, Mrs. Alsager said to him, in giving him his cup of tea and on his having mentioned that he had not closed his eyes the night before:

“You must indeed be in a dreadful state.  Anxiety for another is still worse than anxiety for one’s self.”

“For another?” Wayworth repeated, looking at her over the rim of his cup.

“My poor friend, you’re nervous about Nona Vincent, but you’re infinitely more nervous about Violet Grey.”

“She is Nona Vincent!”

“No, she isn’t—not a bit!” said Mrs. Alsager, abruptly.

“Do you really think so?” Wayworth cried, spilling his tea in his alarm.

“What I think doesn’t signify—I mean what I think about that.  What I meant to say was that great as is your suspense about your play, your suspense about your actress is greater still.”

“I can only repeat that my actress is my play.”

Mrs. Alsager looked thoughtfully into the teapot.

“Your actress is your—”

“My what?” the young man asked, with a little tremor in his voice, as his hostess paused.

“Your very dear friend.  You’re in love with her—at present.”  And with a sharp click Mrs. Alsager dropped the lid on the fragrant receptacle.

“Not yet—not yet!” laughed her visitor.

“You will be if she pulls you through.”

“You declare that she won’t pull me through.”

Mrs. Alsager was silent a moment, after which she softly murmured: “I’ll pray for her.”

“You’re the most generous of women!” Wayworth cried; then coloured as if the words had not been happy.  They would have done indeed little honour to a man of tact.

The next morning he received five hurried lines from Mrs. Alsager.  She had suddenly been called to Torquay, to see a relation who was seriously ill; she should be detained there several days, but she had an earnest hope of being able to return in time for his first night.  In any event he had her unrestricted good wishes.  He missed her extremely, for these last days were a great strain and there was little comfort to be derived from Violet Grey.  She was even more nervous than himself, and so pale and altered that he was afraid she would be too ill to act.  It was settled between them that they made each other worse and that he had now much better leave her alone.  They had pulled Nona so to pieces that nothing seemed left of her—she must at least have time to grow together again.  He left Violet Grey alone, to the best of his ability, but she carried out imperfectly her own side of the bargain.  She came to him with new questions—she waited for him with old doubts, and half an hour before the last dress-rehearsal, on the eve of production, she proposed to him a totally fresh rendering of his heroine.  This incident gave him such a sense of insecurity that he turned his back on her without a word, bolted out of the theatre, dashed along the Strand and walked as far as the Bank.  Then he jumped into a hansom and came westward, and when he reached the theatre again the business was nearly over.  It appeared, almost to his disappointment, not bad enough to give him the consolation of the old playhouse adage that the worst dress-rehearsals make the best first nights.

The morrow, which was a Wednesday, was the dreadful day; the theatre had been closed on the Monday and the Tuesday.  Every one, on the Wednesday, did his best to let every one else alone, and every one signally failed in the attempt.  The day, till seven o’clock, was understood to be consecrated to rest, but every one except Violet Grey turned up at the theatre.  Wayworth looked at Mr. Loder, and Mr. Loder looked in another direction, which was as near as they came to conversation.  Wayworth was in a fidget, unable to eat or sleep or sit still, at times almost in terror.  He kept quiet by keeping, as usual, in motion; he tried to walk away from his nervousness.  He walked in the afternoon toward Notting Hill, but he succeeded in not breaking the vow he had taken not to meddle with his actress.  She was like an acrobat poised on a slippery ball—if he should touch her she would topple over.  He passed her door three times and he thought of her three hundred.  This was the hour at which he most regretted that Mrs. Alsager had not come back—for he had called at her house only to learn that she was still at Torquay.  This was probably queer, and it was probably queerer still that she hadn’t written to him; but even of these things he wasn’t sure, for in losing, as he had now completely lost, his judgment of his play, he seemed to himself to have lost his judgment of everything.  When he went home, however, he found a telegram from the lady of Grosvenor Place—“Shall be able to come—reach town by seven.”  At half-past eight o’clock, through a little aperture in the curtain of the “Renaissance,” he saw her in her box with a cluster of friends—completely beautiful and beneficent.  The house was magnificent—too good for his play, he felt; too good for any play.  Everything now seemed too good—the scenery, the furniture, the dresses, the very programmes.  He seized upon the idea that this was probably what was the matter with the representative of Nona—she was only too good.  He had completely arranged with this young lady the plan of their relations during the evening; and though they had altered everything else that they had arranged they had promised each other not to alter this.  It was wonderful the number of things they had promised each other.  He would start her, he would see her off—then he would quit the theatre and stay away till just before the end.  She besought him to stay away—it would make her infinitely easier.  He saw that she was exquisitely dressed—she had made one or two changes for the better since the night before, and that seemed something definite to turn over and over in his mind as he rumbled foggily home in the four-wheeler in which, a few steps from the stage-door, he had taken refuge as soon as he knew that the curtain was up.  He lived a couple of miles off, and he had chosen a four-wheeler to drag out the time.

When he got home his fire was out, his room was cold, and he lay down on his sofa in his overcoat.  He had sent his landlady to the dress-circle, on purpose; she would overflow with words and mistakes.  The house seemed a black void, just as the streets had done—every one was, formidably, at his play.  He was quieter at last than he had been for a fortnight, and he felt too weak even to wonder how the thing was going.  He believed afterwards that he had slept an hour; but even if he had he felt it to be still too early to return to the theatre.  He sat down by his lamp and tried to read—to read a little compendious life of a great English statesman, out of a “series.”  It struck him as brilliantly clever, and he asked himself whether that perhaps were not rather the sort of thing he ought to have taken up: not the statesmanship, but the art of brief biography.  Suddenly he became aware that he must hurry if he was to reach the theatre at all—it was a quarter to eleven o’clock.  He scrambled out and, this time, found a hansom—he had lately spent enough money in cabs to add to his hope that the profits of his new profession would be great.  His anxiety, his suspense flamed up again, and as he rattled eastward—he went fast now—he was almost sick with alternations.  As he passed into the theatre the first man—some underling—who met him, cried to him, breathlessly:

“You’re wanted, sir—you’re wanted!”  He thought his tone very ominous—he devoured the man’s eyes with his own, for a betrayal: did he mean that he was wanted for execution?  Some one else pressed him, almost pushed him, forward; he was already on the stage.  Then he became conscious of a sound more or less continuous, but seemingly faint and far, which he took at first for the voice of the actors heard through their canvas walls, the beautiful built-in room of the last act.  But the actors were in the wing, they surrounded him; the curtain was down and they were coming off from before it.  They had been called, and he was called—they all greeted him with “Go on—go on!”  He was terrified—he couldn’t go on—he didn’t believe in the applause, which seemed to him only audible enough to sound half-hearted.

“Has it gone?—has it gone?” he gasped to the people round him; and he heard them say “Rather—rather!” perfunctorily, mendaciously too, as it struck him, and even with mocking laughter, the laughter of defeat and despair.  Suddenly, though all this must have taken but a moment, Loder burst upon him from somewhere with a “For God’s sake don’t keep them, or they’ll stop!”  “But I can’t go on for that!”  Wayworth cried, in anguish; the sound seemed to him already to have ceased.  Loder had hold of him and was shoving him; he resisted and looked round frantically for Violet Grey, who perhaps would tell him the truth.  There was by this time a crowd in the wing, all with strange grimacing painted faces, but Violet was not among them and her very absence frightened him.  He uttered her name with an accent that he afterwards regretted—it gave them, as he thought, both away; and while Loder hustled him before the curtain he heard some one say “She took her call and disappeared.”  She had had a call, then—this was what was most present to the young man as he stood for an instant in the glare of the footlights, looking blindly at the great vaguely-peopled horseshoe and greeted with plaudits which now seemed to him at once louder than he deserved and feebler than he desired.  They sank to rest quickly, but he felt it to be long before he could back away, before he could, in his turn, seize the manager by the arm and cry huskily—“Has it really gone—really?”

Mr. Loder looked at him hard and replied after an instant: “The play’s all right!”

Wayworth hung upon his lips.  “Then what’s all wrong?”

“We must do something to Miss Grey.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“She isn’t in it!”

“Do you mean she has failed?”

“Yes, damn it—she has failed.”

Wayworth stared.  “Then how can the play be all right?”

“Oh, we’ll save it—we’ll save it.”

“Where’s Miss Grey—where is she?” the young man asked.

Loder caught his arm as he was turning away again to look for his heroine.  “Never mind her now—she knows it!”

Wayworth was approached at the same moment by a gentleman he knew as one of Mrs. Alsager’s friends—he had perceived him in that lady’s box.  Mrs. Alsager was waiting there for the successful author; she desired very earnestly that he would come round and speak to her.  Wayworth assured himself first that Violet had left the theatre—one of the actresses could tell him that she had seen her throw on a cloak, without changing her dress, and had learnt afterwards that she had, the next moment, flung herself, after flinging her aunt, into a cab.  He had wished to invite half a dozen persons, of whom Miss Grey and her elderly relative were two, to come home to supper with him; but she had refused to make any engagement beforehand (it would be so dreadful to have to keep it if she shouldn’t have made a hit), and this attitude had blighted the pleasant plan, which fell to the ground.  He had called her morbid, but she was immovable.  Mrs. Alsager’s messenger let him know that he was expected to supper in Grosvenor Place, and half an hour afterwards he was seated there among complimentary people and flowers and popping corks, eating the first orderly meal he had partaken of for a week.  Mrs. Alsager had carried him off in her brougham—the other people who were coming got into things of their own.  He stopped her short as soon as she began to tell him how tremendously every one had been struck by the piece; he nailed her down to the question of Violet Grey.  Had she spoilt the play, had she jeopardised or compromised it—had she been utterly bad, had she been good in any degree?

“Certainly the performance would have seemed better if she had been better,” Mrs. Alsager confessed.

“And the play would have seemed better if the performance had been better,” Wayworth said, gloomily, from the corner of the brougham.

“She does what she can, and she has talent, and she looked lovely.  But she doesn’t see Nona Vincent.  She doesn’t see the type—she doesn’t see the individual—she doesn’t see the woman you meant.  She’s out of it—she gives you a different person.”

“Oh, the woman I meant!” the young man exclaimed, looking at the London lamps as he rolled by them.  “I wish to God she had known you!” he added, as the carriage stopped.  After they had passed into the house he said to his companion:

“You see she won’t pull me through.”

“Forgive her—be kind to her!” Mrs. Alsager pleaded.

“I shall only thank her.  The play may go to the dogs.”

“If it does—if it does,” Mrs. Alsager began, with her pure eyes on him.