Waterbury evening Democrat. [volume] (Waterbury, Conn.) 1887-1895, 1893-12-02

in his coat collar.
Tom was in no mood TO cavil He fol-
lowed the direction of the dirty thumb,
cleared The steps in two bounds and
| found himself in the back of the audito-
rum.
For the first time he stood in an empty
theater in the daylight. How ghostly,
solemn. crude, it was! To a nature like
his, 50 sensitive to impressions, there was
something appalling about it. He felt
his enthusiasm ooze slowly, the hope that
had so buoyantly sustained him fall sud
denly. rs if a magic cord had been
snapped.
The curtain was raised on n disorderei
scene; a pillar of papier mache lay prone
across the stage beside piano swathed
in muslin: far up in the gallery the fig
ure of a charwoman was dim and uncan-
ny, her grooming sweeping across the
emptiness; bar of sunlight fell aslant
the shadow and drank mp the swirling
dust 1t was beautiful body from
which the soul had fled.
/ How could he hope that some day each
of these folded seats would contain liv-
ing. thinking being who would listen
with interest, perhaps delight, TO words
of his spoken on the stage, but coined in
a quiet room far away from the crowd?
For this was Toms dream-to be a
writer of plays that the world he loved
would applaud, to be n factor in the life
of the theaters around which for so long
he had secretly circled like restless
moth.
He tried TO throw off the sickening
doubt. walked down the aisle, and open
| ing door ut the back of Il proscrnium
box found himself behind the scenes.
| Gashght and hurry We're here. Scene
shiftrrS moved about dragging bulky
pieces of scenery, swearing at each other
| in hoarse whispers. AT desk under a
f1aring gas jet screened by wire Il large
man sat toying with his watch chain
while he leisurely dictated letter TO
stcnoGraphor. \ few men, whose blue
i slHvcn lips proclaimed their calling. OBJ
sequiously awaited his pleasure. Tom
joined this group. y little crease grew
between his browS as lie fixed his ewes
| implorinSly on the potentate who held
his happiness in his hand.
| But he had little miSgivinS as to the
/ final answer. Surely his play was &C
| ccptcd else il would have been returned
with an abrupt line of refusal or a chill
! ing silence. as many others had been.
! And Vc;-and yet-hc must not hope. or
the blow, if it came, would fall too heav-
| lily. Alterations might be requested or
its appearance postponed for year, or
| this man might be overcrowded and had
sent for him merely to tell him of IA bet
ter market for it. \ pronounced and
! positive success was too sweet dream.
These confused and burning surmises
all melted into q breathless anxiety as
he found himself facing the manager,
who lourgcd with fat, good humored
Importance. waiting for him TO speak.
Il sent You play few weeks ago.
| Yuu wrote me to come i'll today.
Yes. TO be sure" brightly. You're
Mr. Dupont Take Il chair"
No. my names Murray, and the play
was A Family Falling"
M Plunket permitted one of his red
eyebrows t. move slowly toward his
chair
Il wrote You to come: Then he
paused, pursed up his lips, Topped his
watch chain You're mistaken. amt
you:"
y chill crept over Tom and moved
under the roots Of his hair. Had he been
mistaken: Had there been mistake?
Il didn't bring the letter with me
But Won asked me 10 call today at rel
alive To my play"
Without changing his position Mr..
| Pluuket held ont one fat white hand
where huge cats eye winkcd and
| glintcd.
Hand ne that paper. Romney. A
Family Falling Now. let's see. and the
point of his brightly polished nail glanced
| down 4 list. All. yes, of course. It's
been declined, Didn't you get it back"
No" was all Tom could say.
"Romuey, look in that upper drawer.
You made mistake in writing Mr.-er
Mr.. Murray letter. You're getting
so deuced careless I believe you're in
love, upon my soul"
Romncy colored and stuck his pen be-
hind his car.
''Yes. sir. l guess did. l meant 10
send it TO Mr.. Dupont about His Aunt's
Legacy Here's the gcntlemans play.
sir"
Oh, that unknown man named Dupont
how Tom envied and hated him in
that moment! He took the manuscript
like one only half awake He heard Mr..
Plunket murmur an apology and briskly
wish him good afternoon. Still he linCer-
ed, looking down at the roll of paper.
DO you think could get it accepted
anywhere: Or could l improve it, he
asked, and something i'll his face moved
the manager to little pity and patience.
L looked through it. The first scene
told me it wouldn't do. You want the
truth. and I'll give it to you-sentiment
be hanged. Its fairly good as far rs
style goes. You might turn it into a
novel. But we want more than style
on the stage. We want action-we want
life" and warming to his subject Mr..
Plunket threw one ponderous leg over
the arm of his chair. We want situa-
tionS-Quiet, but so subtly and intense
ly weighted with interest that a crowded
house holds its breath to see them de
velop. If You can't do that-and it's
very evident you can't-write a realistic
drama. couldn't use it, of course, but
you'll find manager who'll take it of
your hands fast enough.
stun your audience with daring leap:
into real running water, so that the lead
ing man comes before the curtain in
cased in rubber, diffusing n dampnes:
| that makes the orchestra leader sneeze
or thrill them with mine explosions, Oh
real engines, or bridges that move
There's money in work Of this sort on tn,
Bowery. Talk about the injustice o
managers to native talent! Bosh, all o
it. Are we fools? I'd give almost an.
amount today for a society drama writ
ten by an American dealing in masterl!
style with some of our pertinent socia
questions and holding a true, sympathet
ic love interest. Or give me startling
psychological study with plenty of fire
give me comedy that with laugh tear
off the mask of society, give Inc pla.
delicate rs a miniature, or give me on