Martinsburg herald. [volume] (Martinsburg, W. Va.) 1881-1920, 1893-12-16


something appalling about it. He felt
his enthusiasm ooze slowly, the hope that
had SO buoyantly sustained him fall sud
denly, as if q magic cord had been
snapped.
The curtain was raised ON disordered
scene; pillar of papier mache lay prone
across the stage beside a piano swathed
in muslin; far up in the gallery the fig
ure of charwoman was dim and uncan-
ny, her grooming sweeping across the
emptiness; bar of sunlight fell aslant
the shadow and drank up 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 a liv-
ing, thinking being who would listen
with interest, perhaps delight, to words
of his spoken on the stage, but coined in
quiet room far away from the crowd?
For this was Toms dream-to be a
I writer of plays that the world he loved
would applaud, to be a 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 at the back of proscenium
box found himself behind the scenes.
Gaslight and hurry were here. Scene
shutters moved about dragging bulky
pieces of scenery, swearing at each other
in hoarse whispers. At desk under a
flaring gas jet screened by wire large
man sat toying with his watch chain
while he leisurely dictated letter to a
stenographer. A few men, whose blue
shaven lips proclaimed their calling, OBJ
sequiously awaited his pleasure. Tom
joined this group. A little crease grew
between his brows as he fixed his eyes
imploringly on the potentate who held
his happiness in his hand.
But he had little misgiving as to the
final answer. Surely his play was ac-
cepted else it would have been returned
with an abrupt line of refusal or a chill
ing silence, as many others had been.
And yet-and yet-he 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 d bet
ter market fer it. A pronounced and
positive success was too sweet a dream.
These confused and burning surmises
all melted into a breathless anxiety as
he found himself facing the manager,
who lounged with fat, good humored
importance, waiting for him to speak
81 sent you play few weeks ago.
You wrote me to come in today"
Eyes, to be sure, brightly. You're
Mr.. Dupont. Take a chair"
"No, my names Murray, and the play
was "A Family Falling"
Mr.. Plunket permitted one of his red
eyebrows to move slowly toward his
chair.
Il wrote you to Gomez Then he
paused, pursed up his lips, Topped his
watch chain You're mistaken, amt
you?"
A chill crept over Tom and moved
under the roots of his hair. Had he been
mistaken? Had there been a mistake?
Il didn't bring the letter with me.
But you asked me to call today at rel
alive to my play"
Without changing his position Mr..
| Plunket held out one fat white hand
where a huge cats eye winked and
glinted.
Hand me that paper Romney. "A
Family FailingY Now, let's see, and the
point of his brightly polished nail glanced
down list. "Ah, 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 l believe you're in
love, upon my soul"
Romney colored and stuck his pen be-
hind his ear.
Eyes, sir, l guess l did. l meant to
send it to Mr.. Dupont about His Aunt's
Legacy Here's the gentleman's 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 linger-
ed, looking down at the roll of paper.
"Do you think could get it accepted
anywhere? Or could improve itF' he
asked, and something in his face moved
the manager to little pity and patience.
Il 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 It's fairly good as far as
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..
l Plunket threw one ponderous leg over
/ the arm of his chair. I'VE 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 realistic
/ drama. | couldn't use it, of course, but
| you'll find manager who'll take it off
your hands fast enough.
"Stun your audience with daring leaps
/ into real running water, so that the lead
| ing man comes before the curtain in.
cased in rubber, diffusing a dampness
/ that makes the orchestra leader sneeZe,
or thrill them with mine explosions, or
real engines, or bridges that move.
/ There's money in work of this sort ON the
Bowery. Talk about the injustice of
managers to native talent! Bosh, all of
1 it. Are we fools? I'd give almost any
amount today for a society drama writ
ten by an American dealing in mastery
style with some of our pertinent social
/ questions and holding true, sympathet-
ic love interest. Or give me a startling
psychological study with plenty of fire,
\ give me comedy that with a laugh tears
off the mask of society, give me play
| delicate as o miniature, or give me one
painted in bold splashes and those
splashes like blood, and I'll find a place
| for each of them sooner or later. can
get precious few of them from Ameri-
cans, can tell You. 1t would be better
if nine-tenths of our aspiring dramatists
threw their pens in the river, went home
and settled down to a quiet existence
mending shoes. To be frank-I say it,
my dear fellow, for your own good-for
stuff such as you have there, prettily
phrased, but tame as a flannel rabbit, /
have no USE"
AS Tom passed again through the emp
ty theater the sense of shock departed. A
live ache leaped within him. He walked
on. not needing or caring where his steps
led him. His throat was dry, a burning
sob far down in it that the man in him
beat back. He had been fool, them
An egotistical dreamer