For himself, he had never been so happy as since he had seen his way, as he fondly believed, to some sort of mastery of the scenic idea, which struck him as a very different matter now that he looked at it from within. He had had his early days of contempt for it, when it seemed to him a jewel, dim at the best, hidden in a dunghill, a taper burning low in an air thick with vulgarity. It was hedged about with sordid approaches, it was not worth sacrifice and suffering. The man of letters, in dealing with it, would have to put off all literature, which was like asking the bearer of a noble name to forego his immemorial heritage. Aspects change, however, with the point of view: Wayworth had waked up one morning in a different bed altogether. It is needless here to trace this accident to its source; it would have been much more interesting to a spectator of the young mans life to follow some of the consequences. He had been made (as he felt) the subject of a special revelation, and he wore his hat like a man in love. An angel had taken him by the hand and guided him to the shabby door which opens, it appeared, into an interior both splendid and austere. The scenic idea was magnificent when once you had embraced itthe dramatic form had a purity which made some others look ingloriously rough. It had the high dignity of the exact sciences, it was mathematical and architectural. It was full of the refreshment of calculation and construction, the incorruptibility of line and law. It was bare, but it was erect, it was poor, but it was noble; it reminded him of some sovereign famed for justice who should have lived in a palace despoiled. There was a fearful amount of concession in it, but what you kept had a rare intensity. You were perpetually throwing over the cargo to save the ship, but what a motion you gave her when you made her ride the wavesa motion as rhythmic as the dance of a goddess! Wayworth took long London walks and thought of these thingsLondon poured into his ears the mighty hum of its suggestion. His imagination glowed and melted down material, his intentions multiplied and made the air a golden haze. He saw not only the thing he should do, but the next and the next and the next; the future opened before him and he seemed to walk on marble slabs. The more he tried the dramatic form the more he loved it, the more he looked at it the more he perceived in it. What he perceived in it indeed he now perceived everywhere; if he stopped, in the London dusk, before some flaring shop-window, the place immediately constituted itself behind footlights, became a framed stage for his figures. He hammered at these figures in his lonely lodging, he shaped them and he shaped their tabernacle; he was like a goldsmith chiselling a casket, bent over with the passion for perfection. When he was neither roaming the streets with his vision nor worrying his problem at his table, he was exchanging ideas on the general question with Mrs. Alsager, to whom he promised details that would amuse her in later and still happier hours. Her eyes were full of tears when he read her the last words of the finished work, and she murmured, divinely
And nowto get it done, to get it done!
Yes, indeedto get it done! Wayworth stared at the fire, slowly rolling up his type-copy. But thats a totally different part of the business, and altogether secondary.
But of course you want to be acted?
Of course I dobut its a sudden descent. I want to intensely, but Im sorry I want to.
Its there indeed that the difficulties begin, said Mrs. Alsager, a little off her guard.
How can you say that? Its there that they end!
Ah, wait to see where they end!
I mean theyll now be of a totally different order, Wayworth explained. It seems to me there can be nothing in the world more difficult than to write a play that will stand an all-round test, and that in comparison with them the complications that spring up at this point are of an altogether smaller kind.
Yes, theyre not inspiring, said Mrs. Alsager; theyre discouraging, because theyre vulgar. The other problem, the working out of the thing itself, is pure art.
How well you understand everything! The young man had got up, nervously, and was leaning against the chimney-piece with his back to the fire and his arms folded. The roll of his copy, in his fist, was squeezed into the hollow of one of them. He looked down at Mrs. Alsager, smiling gratefully, and she answered him with a smile from eyes still charmed and suffused. Yes, the vulgarity will begin now, he presently added.
Youll suffer dreadfully.
I shall suffer in a good cause.
Yes, giving that to the world! You must leave it with me, I must read it over and over, Mrs. Alsager pleaded, rising to come nearer and draw the copy, in its cover of greenish-grey paper, which had a generic identity now to him, out of his grasp. Who in the world will do it?who in the world can? she went on, close to him, turning over the leaves. Before he could answer she had stopped at one of the pages; she turned the book round to him, pointing out a speech. Thats the most beautiful placethose lines are a perfection. He glanced at the spot she indicated, and she begged him to read them againhe had read them admirably before. He knew them by heart, and, closing the book while she held the other end of it, he murmured them over to herthey had indeed a cadence that pleased himwatching, with a facetious complacency which he hoped was pardonable, the applause in her face. Ah, who can utter such lines as that? Mrs. Alsager broke out; whom can you find to do her?
Well find people to do them all!
But not people who are worthy.
Theyll be worthy enough if theyre willing enough. Ill work with themIll grind it into them. He spoke as if he had produced twenty plays.
Oh, it will be interesting! she echoed.
But I shall have to find my theatre first. I shall have to get a manager to believe in me.
Yestheyre so stupid!
But fancy the patience I shall want, and how I shall have to watch and wait, said Allan Wayworth. Do you see me hawking it about London?
Indeed I dontit would be sickening.
Its what I shall have to do. I shall be old before its produced.
I shall be old very soon if it isnt! Mrs. Alsager cried. I know one or two of them, she mused.
Do you mean you would speak to them?
The thing is to get them to read it. I could do that.
Thats the utmost I ask. But its even for that I shall have to wait.
She looked at him with kind sisterly eyes. You shant wait.
Ah, you dear lady! Wayworth murmured.
That is you may, but I wont! Will you leave me your copy? she went on, turning the pages again.
Certainly; I have another. Standing near him she read to herself a passage here and there; then, in her sweet voice, she read some of them out. Oh, if you were only an actress! the young man exclaimed.
Thats the last thing I am. Theres no comedy in me!
She had never appeared to Wayworth so much his good genius. Is there any tragedy? he asked, with the levity of complete confidence.
She turned away from him, at this, with a strange and charming laugh and a Perhaps that will be for you to determine! But before he could disclaim such a responsibility she had faced him again and was talking about Nona Vincent as if she had been the most interesting of their friends and her situation at that moment an irresistible appeal to their sympathy. Nona Vincent was the heroine of the play, and Mrs. Alsager had taken a tremendous fancy to her. I cant tell you how I like that woman! she exclaimed in a pensive rapture of credulity which could only be balm to the artistic spirit.