FullReads

He bore no surface signs of the wear and tear of a witches’ night; riding his runaway play and fighting the enchantment that was upon him. Elastic twenty-seven does not mark a bedless session with violet arcs below its eyes;–what violet a witch had used upon Stewart Canby this morning appeared as a dewey boutonniere in the lapel of his new coat; he was that far gone.

Miss Ellsling and a youth of the company took their places near the front of the stage and began the rehearsal of the second act with a dialogue that led up to the entrance of the star with the “ingenue,” both of whom still remained out of the playwright’s range of vision.

As the moment for their appearance drew near, Canby became, to his own rage, almost uncontrollably agitated. Miss Ellsling’s scene, which he should have followed carefully, meant nothing to him but a ticking off of the seconds before he should behold with his physical eyes the living presence of the fairy ghost that had put a spell upon him. He was tremulous all over.

Miss Ellsling and her companion came to a full stop and stood waiting. Thereupon Packer went to the rear of the stage, leaned through an open doorway, and spoke deferentially:

“Mr. Potter? All ready, sir. All ready, Miss–ah–Malone?”

Then he stepped back with the air of an unimportant person making way for his betters to pass before him, while Canby’s eyes fixed themselves glassily upon the shabby old doorway through which an actual, breathing Wanda Malone was to come.

But he was destined not to see her appear in that expectant frame. Twenty years before–though he had forgotten it–in a dazzling room where there was a Christmas tree, he had uttered a shriek of ecstatic timidity just as a jingling Santa Claus began to emerge from behind the tree, and he had run out of the room and out of the house. He did exactly the same thing now, though this time the shriek was not vocal.

Suffocating, he fled up the aisle and out into the lobby. There he addressed himself distractedly but plainly:

“Jackass!”

Breathing heavily, he went out to the wide front steps of the theatre and stood, sunlit Broadway swimming before him.

“Hello, Canby!”

A shabby, shaggy, pale young man, with hot eyes, checked his ardent gait and paused, extending a cordial, thin hand, the fingers browned at the sides by cigarettes smoked to the bitter end. “Rieger,” he said. “Arnold Rieger. Remember me at the old Ink Club meetings before we broke up?”

“Yes,” said Canby dimly. “Yes. The old Ink Club. I came out for a breath of air. Just a breath.”

“We used to settle the universe in that little back restaurant room,” said Rieger. “Not one of use had ever got a thing into print–and me, I haven’t yet, for that matter. Editors still hate my stuff. I’ve kept my oath, though; I’ve never compromised–never for a moment.”

“Yes,” Canby responded feebly, wondering what the man was talking about. Wanda Malone was surely on the stage, now. If he turned, walked about thirty feet, and opened a door, he would see her–hear her speaking!

“I’ve had news of your success,” said Rieger. “I saw in the paper that Talbot Potter was to put on a play you’d written. I congratulate you. That man’s a great artist, but he never seems to get a good play; he’s always much, much greater than his part. I’m sure you’ve given him a real play at last. I remember your principles: Realism; no compromise! The truth; no shirking it, no tampering with it! You’ve struck out for that–you’ve never compro–“

“No. Oh, no,” said Canby, waking up a little. “Of course you’ve got to make a little change or two in plays. You see, you’ve got to make an actor like a play or he won’t play it, and if he won’t play it you haven’t got any play–you’ve only got some typewriting.”