The Great Bordello. A Story of the Theatre

By Avery Hopwood

Published here for the first time, "The Great Bordello, A Story of the Theatre" (edited and with an afterword by Jack F. Sharrar) is by Jazz-Age playwright Avery Hopwood (1882-1928). Hopwood was the most successful playwright of his day, with four hits on Broadway at the same time in 1920. Set in the early decades of the twentieth century, "The Great Bordello" is a "roman a clef" that tells the story of aspiring playwright Edwin Endsleigh (Hopwood's counterpart), who, upon graduation from the University of Michigan, heads for Broadway to earn his fortune and the security to pursue his one true dream of writing the great American novel. Shaping Edwin's journey in the world of the theater is his love of three women: the beautiful, ambitious Julia Scarlet, whom he first meets in Ann Arbor; the emotionally fragile and haunting Jessamy Lee, and the very private and mysterious leading lady Adelina Kane, idol of the American stage. In the company of Edwin and his loves are an array of thinly-veiled representations of theatrical personages of the time, amongst them Daniel Mendoza, the exacting and powerful impresario, who controls the lives of his leading ladies; the goatish manager Matthew Lewis, who promotes Julia Scarlet as "the American Sarah Bernhardt"; the worldly-wise veteran of the stage, Ottilie Potter, who has gotten where she is because, "Men had what I wanted, and I had what they wanted"; and the huge, manlike Helen Sampson, chief among theatrical agents. Once described as "the most devastating expose of the American theatre as an institution imaginable," "The Great Bordello" provides a deeper understanding of the human desire to accomplish something of enduring value amidst commercial success and ruthless realities of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mondial
• Release date: Apr 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781595692443

Avery Hopwood

Jazz-Age playwright Avery Hopwood (1882-1928), benefactor of the Avery and Jule Hopwood Awards Program at the University of Michigan, his alma mater, was the most successful playwright of his day, with four hits on Broadway in 1920 ("The Gold Diggers," "The Bat" and "Spanish Love" (both co-authored with Mary Roberts Rinehart) and "Ladies' Night (In a Turkish Bath)," co-authored with Charlton Andrews. "Getting Gertie s Garter, " "The Demi Virgin, " and "Naughty Cinderella" peppered other seasons. Although Hopwood amassed a fortune writing these Broadway entertainments, his chief goal was to write a significant novel. "Something," he once told a newspaper reporter, "which an intelligent man can sit down and read and think about." "The Great Bordello," completed only days before his early death, was to be, he hoped, just such a work.

Book preview

Chapter I

(1)

To Edwin Endsleigh, as he hurried along State Street, the atmosphere of Ann Arbor, on this October late-afternoon, seemed of a quite splendidly electrical quality. This stimulating impression was, perhaps, only the happy aftereffect of the stirring football game, which he had witnessed an hour before, and which was now being re-fought and re-won upon the lips of his exultant fellow students, thronging the sidewalks all about him. Or perhaps it was the tonic tang of the autumn air in the smoldering embers of a golden sunset, which gave to the closing day so special a vitality. More likely still, it was the fact that the world, at that particular moment, was very young. It was, to be exact, just twenty two years old, for Edwin.

Dusk was fast closing in, but the lights from the shop windows lit up the faces of the passersby. Edwin, among them, made, with his slight height, and his freshly alive young face, a pleasantly eager picture. Eagerness—that was perhaps the impression which one gained most vividly from him—an intense, passionate eagerness—to see—to know—to feel—to do. It shone from his eyes, which were brown, and extraordinarily bright; it gave illuminating character to his countenance, which, with its clean modeling and white clearness of skin, might otherwise have passed for merely good-looking. It was this ardently seeking aspect of Edwin’s which had caused it to be said of him that he always seems to be looking for something. It might have been added that he appeared to be happily confident of finding it.

He was not, at this moment, in nearly so pressing haste, as he seemed to be. It was merely his own restless energy which drove him thus rapidly on. Characteristic of him was the fact that, finding the crowd thickening, instead of lessening his speed, he quickened it. Near Wahr’s bookstore, glimpsing a passing, familiar face, he turned, to call out a greeting. As he did so, he came into a sudden and violent collision with someone. Brought to an abrupt halt, recoiling, he perceived that someone was a young woman, a stranger to him. He realized, instantly, that he had never seen her before, either in the university or in the town. She was a striking young woman. A profusion of reddish-gold hair—splendid eyes—they seemed to be dark—a mouth, which was extremely full and red—crimson, almost—that was the vision of her which flashed, with pleasantly startling suddenness, upon him. He stared for a moment, almost breathlessly.

Oh, I beg your pardon!

With an apologetic half laugh he lifted his cap, then stooped to recover a paper bag, which the shock of the collision had sent flying from the young woman’s hold onto the sidewalk. As he picked it up, the bottom of the bag, damaged by the fall, suddenly gave way, and the contents went showering onto the pavement.

Now, I have done it! he ejaculated. He bent again, to gather up the fallen objects, then, seeing what they were, in their demoralized condition, he halted. Cream puffs! Four of them! All broken and oozing severely onto the flagging. Edwin, straightening from the inspection of them, looked with humorous helplessness at their owner.

It doesn’t matter! she laughed.

But it does, he protested, laughing, too. It was my fault!

I think I’d better pick them up, she said. Someone’s sure to walk on them and get all messy. She reached for the bag, which he was still holding.

Oh, let me do it!

He crouched down, and gathered the scattered pastry gingerly into what was left of the bag. The young woman did not offer to assist him. But she could not, without being ungracious, leave him, in the midst of his task. She continued, therefore, to stand in front of him, and smiling a trifle self-consciously, looked down at him, as he assembled the sticky remains.

There! Edwin, his task completed, consigned the blighted cream puffs to the gutter.

Thank you. Smiling at him, with a slight nod, she turned to go.

Just a minute! he exclaimed. She halted, with the suspicion of a frown. Won’t you let me get you some more?

Oh, no! With a little laugh. But thank you—again! And she was gone.

Edwin, too, started once more upon his way. After a moment he turned, to look back at her. But she was lost in the crowd.

(2)

He kept thinking of her, as he went along State Street and turned into east Washington. When he reached Main Street, his mind was still occupied with her—he was still wondering who she might be.

He had an account to settle for his fraternity, at Burns’s department store. This duty accomplished, he turned his steps towards the Cook House, which prided itself upon the somewhat dubious distinction of being Ann Arbor’s leading hotel. It was incumbent upon him to inquire if a certain Miss Bartlett were registered there. She was a cousin of a friend of his, who had written him to look up the young woman upon her belated appearance in Ann Arbor, and to assist her in getting settled.

He found, when he reached the hotel that Miss Bartlett had arrived. He sent up his card. The redheaded and friendly bell hop, returning, informed him with a knowing smile that the young lady would see him in the parlor, on the second floor.

Edwin went up to the parlor. He would probably have to wait—girls were always so slow. But he had stood there scarcely a minute when he heard someone entering the room. He turned. Unbelievable! The girl of the cream puffs!

(3)

Catching sight of him she, too, was startled, stopped short. She was carrying his card in her hand. He went eagerly toward her.

Well! he exclaimed, in happy surprise.

She looked at him as if she did not understand, and her smile, in response to his, was obviously perfunctory. You’re—Mr. Endsleigh? she asked, glancing at the card.

Yes. He nodded, laughing. "Wasn’t that funny, our running into one another like that, on State Street? We certainly did run into each other, didn’t we? It’s too bad that I didn’t know who you were. I’d have made you let me get you some more cream puffs! Then, perceiving that her expression grew steadily more uncomprehending: Tommy wrote me that you were coming, I suppose he told you."

Tommy? she repeated, blankly.

Tommy Bartlett.

Tommy Bartlett.

She bent upon him a glance in which there was manifest a growing shade of suspicion and haughtiness.

I’m afraid I don’t remember—Tommy Bartlett.

Aren’t you his cousin? Ned, frankly astonished, stared at her.

Not that I’m aware of, she responded, surveying him steadily.

Aren’t you Miss Bartlett?

No, she replied, my name is—I’m Miss Scarlet.

Oh, he exclaimed, I beg your pardon. They must have misunderstood, in the office. I asked for Miss Bartlett. Then, fancying that he still detected a shadow of incredulity in her gaze, he added: She’s the cousin of a friend of mine. He wrote me to look her up. She’s just entering the university.

I see. She permitted herself, now, to smile, as she gave him back his card.

I seem to be giving you all kinds of trouble! said Edwin. They both smiled, thinking of the State Street episode. She turned to go. I still feel, he remarked, walking beside her, that I ought to get you some more cream puffs.

Oh, no! I’m better off without them. I bought them in a moment of weakness.

And lost them in a moment of collision!

But thank you, just the same.

They had passed from the parlor into the hall. Her way now led to the left, while his was straight on. But as she turned to leave him, he detained her with a question.

If I can’t get you some more cream puffs—isn’t there anything else I can do for you? I mean, if you are entering the university.

But I’m not, she replied, shaking her head and smiling. Evidently, the idea amused her.

Oh, he said, a trifle blankly. I thought you must be.

No. And she shook her head again, still smiling. She seemed about to end their conversation, then some impulse—perhaps a touch of youthful pride—made her add: I’m—playing here.

Playing? he repeated, not comprehending. Then, a sudden, pleased surprise lighting up his face: You don’t mean playing in the theatre?

Yes. She nodded, with a flash of happy brightness. She could not help responding to his evident, quick enthusiasm.

Oh! he breathed, and stood, gazing at her, his eyes shining. He seemed, for the moment, quite bereft of speech. But when he saw that she was, again, about to leave him, he exclaimed, impetuously, Oh, no! Don’t go! He rushed on, in the impulsive explanation: I—I want to talk to you. You see, I—I’m just crazy about the stage!

She might have been tempted to smile at his extravagance, but the sincerity of his outburst appealed to her.

Do you mean, she asked, that you want to go on the stage?

No—write for it.

Oh, that’s fine! she exclaimed, with an enthusiasm now as kindling as his. "College men ought to be writing plays. It’s a wonderful field. Have you done anything yet?"

No—just ideas—and I’m going to do something! And then, in another impulsive outburst, Miss Scarlet—won’t you come in and sit down—just for a minute?

She hesitated. Evidently, she was not an easily approachable young woman. Then, I suppose I might, she conceded, half smiling, a happy touch of impulsiveness now warming her own tone. She turned with him back toward the parlor. But just for a minute, she reminded him.

(4)

Arrived in the parlor, she sat down, in a big armchair. Ned pulled around a lean, long-backed chair, and seated himself opposite her. He was telling himself, as he did so, that he’d never seen anyone so wonderful, so beautiful. Yet more than probably any other person, happening at that moment to enter the parlor, would have challenged Edwin’s enthusiastic estimate.

Miss Scarlet was good-looking, there was no gainsaying that. Her abundant red-gold hair was undeniably lovely, and her eyes were fine. Edwin, in his first glimpse of her, had thought that they were dark. He saw now that they were gray. They were large, thickly veiled, and expressive. But the suppositious challenger of Miss Scarlet’s claims to beauty might have pointed out that her mouth was too large, and her lips too full, in spite of their vitality of coloring, and their aspect of passionate, repressed sweetness. He might have found that her features were too sharp, that her figure was angular, and that her movements lacked somewhat in grace and repose. Indeed, he might have called them, at times, downright jerky—like her speech, which came out in a rapid, staccato utterance—rushed, rather breathless, often blurred. And if he had been accompanied by his lady there is little doubt but that she would have commented, to Miss Scarlet’s disparagement, upon a certain carelessness in her attire and grooming. In short, the world and his wife would probably have agreed that Julia Scarlet, although indubitably striking-handsome, even—yet gave, at this particular period of her career, the impression of being a somewhat unfinished product. And with this, there emanated from her a sense of straining and untamed powers, of qualities quite aquiline in their sweep, which was apt to make the average man who met her a trifle uneasy. He might have admired her, he would very likely have tried to make love to her, but he would have thought twice about marrying her.

Edwin Endsleigh, however, was not an average young man. Not that he contemplated, upon so short an acquaintance, the possibility of a union with the, for him, so splendid Miss Scarlet. But he was wholly pervaded, now, as he sat across from her, by a tremendous admiration. Her faults, if faults she had, were for him non-existent. He saw her as an incredibly glorious personage.

And Julia Scarlet, encountering his admiring gaze, naturally could not rest quite unaware that she was arousing definite emotion in this attractive young man.

Yes, she thought, he was really very good-looking. What struck her most about him, perhaps, was his ardent pallor, the firm and healthy whiteness of his flesh, and she liked the picturesque unruliness of his brown, rather wavy hair, and the eager intensity of his eyes. They, too, were brown, and peculiarly glowing, alive. He kept them, now, fixed with almost disconcerting intentness upon her as he confided, boyishly:

I don’t know why I told you that—I mean, about my wanting to write plays. I’ve never told anyone else.

I suppose, she said, smiling at him, you don’t see many—stage people?

You’re the first real actress I’ve ever met, he confessed, smiling, too. His mouth, she noted, was rather large, the lips full, and a trifle loose. And his nose was too wide, at the base. But he was very good-looking.

"You don’t know that I am a real actress, she reminded him. You haven’t seen me act!"

"I’m going to. I have a ticket for tonight. You’re in The Only Way aren’t you? You must be, he added, laughingly, there’s no other play in town."

Yes—I play Mimi. I’m not very good in it. It’s not my sort of part.

Mimi—she’s the girl who’s in love with—what’s his name—the man who’s guillotined?

Sydney Carton. But I’m guillotined, too—I mean Mimi is.

Yes, I know. I’ve read the book, of course, but I haven’t seen the play.

You should’ve seen Henry Miller in it, she said, and grew enthusiastic in her description of his performance, and of that of Margaret Anglin, who had played Mimi. And then, Edwin, who had never seen Miss Anglin, had to be told of her—and the mention of her led inevitably to Mrs. Fiske, that supreme luminary, to whom all emerging stars must needs be compared. And then there was talk of Mrs. Patrick Campbell, and discussion of Olga Nethersole, and Julia Marlowe, and other stage celebrities of the period, until the great clock on the county building, chiming six, caused Julia to start abruptly to her feet.

What time is it? she demanded in alarm, and when she learned, although reassured, declared that she must go, forthwith.

But I wanted to ask you so many things, protested Edwin, and I haven’t asked you any of them!

I’m sorry, she said, but I must be at the theatre by seven, and I’ve not had any dinner yet.

Won’t you have dinner with me? he blurted out.

I’m sorry, again, and she tempered her second refusal with a smile, but I’m having dinner with one of the company.

Well then, could I see you after the theatre? I mean, for supper. You can’t get much to eat in this town, but—

I never eat after the theatre.

Checked, he looked at her helplessly for a moment, then burst out: "Don’t you think it’s just because you’re an actress! Of course, that is why I want to talk to you—but what I mean is, don’t think I’m taking advantage of your being connected with the stage, to force myself on you. But there are so many things that I’d like to talk about, with you—and I never get a chance, with anyone else."

He was very attractive, in his youthful impetuosity, as he stood, pleading with her. His eyes shone, his skin, ordinarily so clearly, finely white, was flushed with excitement, his lips were parted eagerly.

I understand, she said, and I’m sorry, really, but you see, I’m dreadfully ambitious, and I don’t want to do anything that will come between me and my work—not even such a little thing as staying out late after the theatre.

I know! He nodded, in quick sympathy. I’m awfully ambitious, too, and I know how it is. You’d give up anything, rather than have it interfere with what you want to do. I understand—and you’re right. And then he added, boyishly, But I’d like to see you again, all the same! She smiled at this, and so did he. Then an idea coming to him: How about tomorrow?

The company’s leaving in the afternoon for Detroit.

On the six thirty?

Yes.

But you’d have time for a drive.

She hesitated. I’m afraid I can’t.

His quick disappointment showed in his face. I’m sorry, he said. "I would like to see you again, Miss Scarlet!"

His eyes met hers. She was conscious of his admiration, but she was aware, too, of the reassuring honesty of his gaze.

How about a walk? she demanded, with sudden directness.

Tomorrow?

Yes.

Oh—great!

If you call me then—tomorrow—at two.

She did not give him her hand, in parting, but she did give him a quick, bright smile—a smile, indeed, that was quite irradiating. She went down the corridor, evidently to return to her room. Edwin descended the stairway—on air!

Tomorrow—at two!

(5)

The magic words kept recurring to him as he hurried along on his way back to the fraternity house. But he would see her again before tomorrow—tonight, on that field of his splendid visions—the stage! He wished that he were going alone, instead of with Doddy Gibson. It would be difficult to behave as if nothing had happened. He would want to pour out his secret, to exclaim, in the theatre, I know her—that girl with the red-gold hair. I’m to see her—tomorrow—at two!

How Doddy would stare! But he didn’t want Doddy to stare! He was possessed by the desire to astound Doddy, with his glorious adventure, and yet, paradoxically, he didn’t want Doddy or anyone else to know a word about it. When they reached the theatre, at a quarter past eight, there were only a few people in the lobby, and no line before the box office.

Neddy, commented Doddy, I guess you picked a lemon! Look at the crowd that isn’t here!

If it were some rotten leg show, said Edwin, resentfully, the house would be packed!

And I’d be in the front row with opera glasses! declared the shameless Doddy.

Edwin, already immersed in his program, stumbled into his seat. He ran hastily through the list of characters, and from very eagerness missed, at first, the name for which he was searching. Then, going through the cast a second time, he came upon it.

Mimi—Julia Scarlet.

Julia Scarlet! A glorious name! He could see it, in his mind’s eye, on billboards, and shining, in magic, electric brightness, over the entrance of theatres. Julia! Julia Scarlet!

The musicians, emerging from subterranean recesses, crawled into the orchestra pit. The leader took up his position, gave a quick, commanding slash with his baton. The music began.

Edwin looked about him, thrilling, as he always did in a theatre, even before the curtain rose. The mere sense of the place, the mere fact of being in a playhouse, filled him with emotion. The people filing in—the lights, the music—the knowledge that, in a few moments, the silent, fateful curtain would rise—that curtain which hid the enchanted world of his dreams—all this stirred and moved him, with a fundamental, delicious agitation.

The music ceased, the lights died down. Then—breathless, transporting moment of initial miracle—the curtain rose!

(6)

The dark, dramatic prologue played swiftly through. The curtain fell, and rose again; the first act began. Sydney Carton slept in his chair. A voice, outside—a man’s voice—loudly: Anybody in? Then the same voice called: Mimi!

At the sound of that name, Edwin’s heart began to beat more quickly. Julia Scarlet was coming now. But no—it was Stryver who, still calling for Mimi, came in at the door. And then, a moment later, Julia Scarlet came upon the stage so quietly that although Edwin was eagerly awaiting her, he did not see her enter. It was the sound of her voice which flashed his attention to her.

I am sorry, sir, if I kept you waiting.

She stood, looking timidly at Stryver. Edwin scarcely recognized her. She had subdued her brilliant coloring to pale and neutral tints; she had sunk her vivid personality in the softly moving, repressed figure of Mimi.

Edwin, leaning eagerly forward in his seat, his eyes fixed intently upon her, followed, raptly, through her brief scene. She began in hushed tones, almost inaudibly, a common enough device to seize the attention of an audience. It achieved its purpose. As she went on, she elevated her voice, only a little, but every word told unmistakably. Edwin realized that she was playing the scene very well, but he was conscious of something else—something which was strangely alien to the scene and to the character which she was portraying. There came out to him, from Julia Scarlet, a seething sense of restless power, of something primal and tremendous, which lay deeply behind this pallid mask and which threatened, at times, as the play progressed, to transform the subdued, pathetic Mimi into one of those violent figures of the revolution, against whom she was supposed to stand out in quiet contrast. This tempestuous, epic quality in Julia came, indeed, dangerously near to unfitting her for the role of the submissive Mimi. She had her pale coloring, she had changed her walk, her gestures, she had moderated her rushed, staccato speech, but she could not disguise, completely, her inherent vitality, her vigor of spirit, her innate unlikeness to the somewhat lymphatic Dickens heroine.

When the curtain fell after the first act, Edwin turned expectantly to Doddy.

What do you think of the girl? he could not refrain from asking.

Oh, she’s all right, said Doddy, carelessly.

All right! It was sacrilege! And yet, Edwin was conscious of an uneasy wonder as to whether he alone had felt the attraction of Julia Scarlet, whether he alone had been stirred by the sense of her power. She had seemed to hold the audience, but he heard now, about him, no comments about her. His fellow playgoers appeared, incredibly, not to have been particularly impressed by her. He consoled himself by reflecting that, should they or Doddy meet her on the highway, they would sit up and take notice quickly enough. Of course, with that drab make-up, the real, the glorious Julia had no chance!

The curtain rose again; the play swept on. To a keener critic than Edwin, it might have seemed that the old, melodramatic story creaked, at times, somewhat obviously, that the language was a bit too stilted, even for the period, and the humor and emotion occasionally manufactured. But Edwin saw and felt little of this. His was the creative temperament. He came, not to carp, but to enjoy. What was lacking in the piece and in the playing of it, his ardent young imagination supplied. He was transported to another world. He lived in that fierce surge of passions which men know as the French Revolution. He walked, with Sydney Carton, the sadly tangled way of love, and duty, and sacrifice. And with him walked Mimi—this strangely disquieting Mimi—Mimi of cream puffs, and red, red lips, and red-gold hair! At the end, however, the State Street Mimi—the Cook House Mimi—the Julia Scarlet Mimi, quite disappeared. In the scene of the final meeting with Carton in the Conciergerie, and in the ascent to the guillotine, the artist triumphed. It was Mimi herself at whom he was gazing now. Julia Scarlet was gone—forgotten.

It is getting very near. It was Mimi, whispering to Sydney Carton.

Yes. You will be brave, won’t you? Heaven is only half a step from little souls like you.

Will they be rapid?

Yes. Keep your hand in mine, and your eyes on me, dear child, and mind nothing else.

I shall mind nothing while I hold your hand…. You remember, when you found me in the darkness, you took me by the hand, and led me home…. Would you kiss me?

I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

It is a far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. It is a far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.

(7)

It was over. Edwin found himself, with Doddy, outside, on the pavement.

Talk about a funeral! was Doddy’s comment.

Oh, Doddy! Doddy!

What?

Edwin was looking upward. The stars were golden. So, in that moment, was his heart—and full, almost to bursting, with young emotion, and desire—with high ambition, and with love, love of Julia Scarlet.

Isn’t it a wonderful night! And isn’t it a wonderful world!

There were so many things which he could not say to Doddy!

He dreamed, that night, but, strangely, not of Julia Scarlet. His dreams were troubled, violent. He was catching a train, he was trying to pack his things, but they would not be packed. He could not find them, he was always thinking of something, which he had forgotten, and the train was going—going. Then he was in a fight—evil faces crowding in upon him—someone seizing him by the throat, trying to throttle him. Then surcease from this, and blankness, merging insensibly into a vague dream of passion. The dream grew more precise. A woman was lying beside him—a woman whom he had never seen—nude—desirous. He held her in his arms, his lips pressed to hers; he quivered against her naked breasts, and deliriously possessed her.

He woke, his dream-passion spent. Morning was freshening through the open windows. Doddy, who shared his room, was snoring, snortingly.

Languid, Edwin lay between waking and sleep, his mind lazily speculating. His thought went to Julia Scarlet. Why had he not dreamed of her, instead of some unknown woman? And why such a dream, after his almost holy exultation of the night before? The first part of his dream—the endeavor to catch the train, the Sisyphus-like attempt to pack his things and then the fight, the evil faces, the hands that throttled—all this he could understand. Sigmund Freud had not yet appeared upon the American intellectual horizon, but for this earlier portion of his dream Edwin required no help of interpretation. All that worry, that violence, had come, very probably, from the Welch rarebit which he had eaten, prosaically and recklessly, after the performance. But that other dream—the woman—the embraces? Oh, well, perhaps that came from the rarebit, too—or from the two glasses of milk—or because he had been lying on his back. And anyhow, it was natural enough. But why should he dream of a strange woman? Still, he could scarcely have had such a dream about Julia. He respected her too much.

Then, promptly and inconsistently, he began to wonder if Julia were straight—if there might, perhaps, be a chance of making her. After all, she was an actress—she must’ve seen a good deal of life. He wondered—had she ever—? The thought brought with it a little pang. No, he did not believe that. Julia was a good girl—he knew it—she was straight. Why, oh why, did he always have to bring that sort of thing into his thoughts about girls? It had always been like that, ever since he had known anything about—anything—perhaps before. He had always been sort of—rotten. Still, all fellows were like that. But he used to be so religious—and yet, even then—the thoughts that he had had—the things that he had done—the things that he had wanted to do! And now—even when he met a girl like Julia—!

Still vaguely uneasy, still with a little pain at his heart, he drifted wistfully, then heavily, back into his interrupted slumber.

Chapter II

(1)

Needless to say, he was at the hotel the next day promptly at two o’clock. Julia, also, was punctual. In a surprisingly short time after he had been announced, she emerged from the elevator. He went eagerly to meet her. She gave him her hand and her quick, radiant smile in greeting. She was as splendidly alive, as vital in coloring, by the light of full day, as she had been the evening before. Indeed, the red-gold of her hair and the crimson of her lips seemed more than ever vivid. She was plainly attired, in a tailor made suit, a nondescript, drab hue. Her hat was black and broad, and enlivened by a stiff red feather.

How did you do it? asked Edwin, giving a smile. I thought girls were never on time.

You see, she explained, as he held the door open for her to pass out, my spirit has been broken, catching early trains, on one-night stands!—Which way do we go?

The best walk is around the boulevard. But it’s a couple of miles. Is that too much for you?

Oh, no. I’d love it. Isn’t it glorious out!

She looked up at the sky. It was a pale, infinitely peaceful blue. Peace was in the quiet air, too, the piece of the Sabbath, and the tranquil, golden autumn. The day was so mild that people sat sunning themselves on their porches.

Ann Arbor is lovely, isn’t it? she said, as they went up East Huron Street.

It is rather nice.

How long have you been here?

I’m in my senior year. But never mind about me. Tell me about yourself. Before you do that, though, I want to tell you something. You were simply great, last night!

So you really came?

You couldn’t have kept me away if you tried!

I wouldn’t have tried! There were few enough people, as it was!

It’s a shame! Why, you gave a performance—

You don’t have to praise my performance! She smiled.

"I don’t need to! It spoke for itself. You had me—you had all of us—every minute!"

Really? She turned to him. She was no longer smiling. Her face, all of a sudden, was almost stunningly earnest.

"Someday you’ll have audiences, who will come just to see you—audiences as big as the theatres will hold."

You think so?

I know it.

I’m trying awfully hard! The emotion of her struggle, suddenly flooding her voice, almost made it break. I want to do something really worthwhile!

But you will! he assured her. You’re bound to—how long have you been on the stage?

Three years. She told him, then, she had always wanted to act. When her grandmother died, and she found herself quite alone in the world, she left her hometown of Booneville, Indiana, and came to Chicago, with little money and great expectations. After much fruitless search, she finally procured an engagement—in the chorus of a musical comedy. Oh, no! protested Edwin. Oh, yes! She smiled. I was desperate! I’d have been willing to go into burlesque! Then she got into a stock company in Milwaukee, first as a walk-on, later playing quite good parts. "I had two years of stock. It was great training. Then I went to New York. Have you ever gone to New York, to look for a job? All that I can say is ‘Don’t!’—though of course I’m going straight back there, the moment I’m through with The Only Way!"

Did you have a hard time getting anything—in New York?

Did I. She paused, expressively.

I should think that they’d just be looking for someone like you.

No. She shook her head. I did all the looking!

But what’s the matter with them? he demanded. You have youth, good looks, ability!

She was so much in earnest, now, that she made no attempt to disclaim this tribute.

"I don’t know what’s the matter with them! she explained, and for the first time he was aware of a note of discouragement. I begin to wonder if there is something the matter with me! I did think that I had at least a fair share of the things you’ve been kind enough to say that I have, but it doesn’t seem to do any good. You see, the one thing the managers demand is experience."

Don’t your two years of stock work count for anything?

Not in New York. If you haven’t made good on Broadway, you simply don’t exist, for most of the New York managers. At least, that’s how it seems to me. And then, I’m afraid I’m rather hard to fit. You see, the easiest parts for a girl to get, at the start, are ingénue roles—and I’m not an ingénue.

But you’re young enough—

Yes, but you can’t imagine me playing a ‘sweet young thing’—now can you?

Well, not one of those silly, gurgly-goo parts, he was forced to admit.

No. I don’t look it, I don’t feel it, I can’t be it. What I’m fitted for, physically, and what I want to play is leading-woman parts. But of course I can’t expect to land that sort of thing right at the start. At least, not in New York. The best I was able to get, there, was an engagement as general understudy.

And didn’t anyone in the cast get ill?

"No—they were all disgustingly healthy. Then the chance came to go on tour with this Only Way company—and here I am!" In her voice, again, there was a note of discouragement.

But you’re a leading woman!

Yes, but who knows about it? I’m playing a lead with a cheap company, in one-night stands—and if we do go to a bigger city for a week, we’re in a second-rate theatre. No one ever sees me—no one who counts.

Thank you! He bowed, laughing.

"You know what I mean—no New York manager sees me. No—as I said before, you must ‘make good’ on Broadway before you amount to anything. And if you’re a woman, you must make good early. The sooner, the better. If a woman hasn’t ‘landed’ in New York by the time she’s twenty-five or so, the chances are that she never will. At least, not as a leading woman. You have to make a place for yourself, while you’re young, and then you have to fight like the mischief to hang on to your place, while you’re growing old."

You seem to have figured it all out.

Well, why shouldn’t I? It’s my profession. But I don’t know whether I would have sized things up so soon, if it hadn’t been for a friend of mine—a woman who played character parts, in that stock company in Milwaukee. She explained the whole game to me—took all the romance out of it, and just hammered the cold facts into me. She’d been through it all. She started in young, beautiful, with all sorts of big ambitions and high ideals, and then—

She paused. Glancing at her, Edwin saw that her face was set. She walked slowly along, in silence, gazing far ahead of her, broodingly.

And what then? he prompted, after a moment.

What? She turned to him, with a little start.

What happened—to your friend?

Emily Amwill? She’s middle-aged now and sort of worn out—and she hasn’t done anything that she set out to do.

Why not?

Because they wouldn’t give her a chance.

"But you can’t mean that the managers won’t give anyone a chance?"

"She had chances—but they weren’t the kind that she could accept."

What kind? Then, suddenly comprehending, I see.

For a little, they were silent.

(2)

They were on State Street now. All Ann Arbor was abroad—at least, all of its student representation. The sidewalks were alive with young men and young women, bound, most of them, like Edwin and Julia, for the boulevard. Youthful couples in phaetons, laughing quartettes in depot wagons, and members of the more dashing set, in the still infrequent and self-conscious automobile, went gaily past. Youth and joy and love were in the autumn air. Edwin was acutely conscious of them, and of the radiance of the day, but he was aware, too, of a sudden uneasiness, a sense of disturbance, occasioned by Julia’s last remark. Into the golden world of his young dreams had intruded, abruptly, the jarring note of actuality. He knew now why Julia’s face had set so strangely, and why she’d gazed into the distance, when she thought of her friend—this middle-aged woman, this Emily Amwill, who had fought the fight, theatrically speaking, and failed.

He knew little of conditions in the theatre, but from things which he had heard and read he had a more or less definite impression that very often, an actress’s success was apt to be conditioned upon the personal compromises which she made, with the managerial powers-that-be. Emily Amwill, apparently, had been unwilling to make such compromises. It was because of this that she had failed. It was the remembrance of this woman’s very fate that rested chillingly upon Julia. But Edwin, reflecting, could not feel that this Emily Amwill’s case was typical. Was it not possible that the real reason for her failure lay in a lack of talent? He voiced his doubt to Julia.

Perhaps. And she confessed that her friend gave no evidence of great talent.

Surely you don’t think, pursued Edwin, "that it’s absolutely impossible for a woman to succeed unless she does make compromises?"

No! she exclaimed, throwing back her head with a fine suggestion of defiance. If I thought that, I wouldn’t go on. I think that an actress can succeed in spite of anyone or anything, if she’ll only fight! Of course, I suppose that Emily, and all the rest of them who have failed, did fight—but not the way I’ll fight! And I won’t fail! I won’t.

Her face, once more was set, her hands clenched, her voice almost hoarse. Then, glancing at Edwin’s vaguely disturbed expression, she threw back her head again, this time with a laugh.

Don’t be frightened! I’m not going to do an emotional scene!—Why, that’s the station, isn’t it?

Yes, we go down the hill and turn to the right. That takes us to the boulevard. It goes away up that hill, on the other side of the valley.

They went down the steep descent to the station, and turning to the right, took the road running parallel with the railway.

This is the worst part of the walk, explained Edwin. A little farther on, it begins to be nice.

They went on, along the level road. Walking more briskly now, they overtook and passed other pedestrians. Ned, greeting two acquaintances, noted them glancing curiously and with obvious admiration at Julia. He felt that he was being envied by his fellows, and he was suffused with a pleasant warmth of superiority. He experienced, too, a gratifying sense of male protectiveness toward Julia. The highway, here and there, was still muddy from recent rains. He carefully guided her, by her elbow, over the bad spots. At one point, where the road was particularly bad, Julia, instead of going out of her way, elected to spring across the intervening puddle. Edwin, supporting her, felt a quick thrill as she leaned her weight upon him. The puddle past, he relinquished his guiding hold upon her arm, but he felt himself, as they went along, drawing close to her. He did not seem to be doing it intentionally. Something—a veritable magnetism—seemed to be operating between them. He was deliciously conscious of their contact when, from time to time, they brushed against one another. He felt buoyantly happy—he wished for more puddles to cross. But the road, from now on, proved perversely good.

They came, at length, to where their way led upward. From time to time, as they ascended, they paused, to take breath, and to survey the gradually unfolding panorama of the Huron Valley.

Aren’t those willows lovely? said Edwin. They always seem to me to be marching, two by two, along the riverbank.

"That’s just what they’re doing! cried Julia, turning upon him a glance of quick appreciation. And yet, I could’ve looked at them all my life long and never been able to put it that way!"

Edwin did not readily find a response to this, but he was immensely pleased—with Julia—and with himself.

I hope there isn’t someone on ‘The Lookout,’ he said, presently. That’s a place at the top, where there’s such a good view.

And when they came to The Lookout, the rustic bench to which he had referred was, miraculously, unoccupied.

"We’re lucky! There is almost always someone here—some two, I mean!"

(3)

They ensconced themselves on the pine-wood seat. Below them lay the pleasant Huron Valley, across it rose Ann Arbor, with its observatory dome, white in the sunlight.

It’s beautiful! breathed Julia, with a long sigh. He stole a glance at her. Her gaze, once more, was fixed upon the distance, but her eyes, now, were filled with peaceful appreciation.

It seems, he said, to be lying there and saying, ‘Here I am—lovely without effort—perfect without trying to be.’

She nodded, dreamily. Then, rousing and turning to him with a smile, And now, tell me, Mr. Endsleigh—did you always want to write?—You know, that’s how all the reporters will begin, when they interview you, after you become famous.

"Which, of course, is only a matter of a few months!—Yes, I’m afraid I always did want to write—as far back as I can remember. But for a while—when I was about sixteen or seventeen, I wanted to do something else."

What?

Well, I hovered between a desire to be a preacher and an actor.

She laughed. Two rather different professions!

Not so different, if you come to think of it.

No, she admitted, I suppose that’s true.

You see, when I was about sixteen I went through what they call a religious awakening—sort of a mystical measles, springing largely from adolescence—you can read all about it in William James. But at the same time, I was crazy about the stage. Then, when I was nineteen, I got over my religious phase—

Entirely?

I became completely agnostic.

And you still are?

More than ever.

Dear! She sighed.

Are you a believer?

Why—yes.

"Well, that’s all right. And maybe I’m all wrong. But anyhow, I lost my desire to decorate a pulpit, but I still wanted to be an actor. My first year in college, I almost drove my room-mate crazy, reciting the murder scene from Macbeth, and Owen Meredith’s Aux Italiens. You know, they’re required for admission to the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I was all set to go there, at the end of my freshman year—when I recovered from that obsession, too."

What happened? asked Julia. Did you lose your dramatic faith—the same way you lost your religious-measles?

No, but you see, no matter what else I had wanted to do, I never for a moment gave up the idea of writing. And I couldn’t help realizing that it’s difficult to be a writer, and something else, too. So I decided to concentrate on writing.

He told her, then, that by doing extra work throughout his college course he would be able to graduate in mid-winter, instead of in June. He expected to leave Ann Arbor in February, and go to Buffalo, where he lived with an uncle and aunt. In the following six months he intended to give himself a chance to see what he could really do at the writing game.

For goodness knows, he said, how much time I’ll have, once I’m really ‘out in the world,’ as our college alumni always call it. You see, I’ve got to work for my living—I mean, as soon as my six months are up.

And when they are up—?

Then—straight to New York. I hope that by then, I’ll have written something that I can sell, so that I’ll have money enough to live on, while I compose my next masterpiece! But if I don’t manage that, I’ll do newspaper work for a while. And I’ve a sneaking suspicion, he confessed, that that’s just what I’ll find myself doing.

Oh, I don’t know, said Julia, encouragingly.

Of course you don’t, retorted Edwin, teasing her, "and neither do I. But I know this much—I will make good, some day—or die in the attempt!"

So will I! exclaimed Julia Scarlet, with a glowing determination that matched his own.

I’m going to get my play to Belasco—or, Daniel Mendoza!

Yes, they’re the two men I want to get to! One at a time, I mean!—Of course, they’re great rivals.

"I don’t think that Mendoza can touch Belasco!"

Still, Mendoza is wonderful, too. If he takes up an actress, she’s as good as made.

I know. Look what he’s done for Adelina Kane.

"And he’s not so strenuous as Belasco."

No. They say, the great David pulls his women stars around by their hair, to make them act.

I wouldn’t mind if he pulled my hair right off, declared Julia, if I can only have success!

Success! breathed Ned. You’re right! It’s the only thing in the world that’s really worthwhile—then he added after a moment—except, I suppose, caring a lot for somebody—who cares a lot for you!

Oh! She smiled. Do you want that, too?

I’ll tell you what I want! His bright gaze upon her: I want to see everything—know everything—experience everything! I want to live—to the very limits of living—and I want to do good work and have—oh—oodles and oodles of success!

Is that all?

About all! said Edwin, with a smile.

Julia, looking at him, smiled, too, but there was a touch of seriousness in her amusement.

I’m afraid, she said, that you want too much. And then she added: But you’re right, about success. That’s the thing that matters most of all. But not just the success of the mob—not just applause, and a lot of money—

Oh, I want money! interrupted Ned. I want a success that I can see, and feel—and spend!

Well, of course, she admitted, that has its advantages. Still, I think I’d be willing to go hungry my whole life long, if I could play the roles I want to and play them well!

What sort of roles?

"Things that are big! Magda—Hedda Gabler—all of Shakespeare—Elektra—Regina, in Ghosts."

Yes! he cried, fired by her enthusiasm. I want to do big things, too. I wouldn’t be satisfied with just money. It’s only—I’d like to have the money, too.

So would I! she conceded, smiling.

But to do really big work—something that will last! That’s the only thing that’s really worthwhile!

He gazed out, ecstatically, across the valley, his face illuminated. Julia, looking at him, felt that she had never seen anyone so splendidly confident, so bright an embodiment of young aspiration.

They went on talking, oblivious of the passing of time, of the coming and going of people on the road behind them—forgetful of everything save themselves, and their happily mutual theme—the theatre. They spoke of other things, their young minds flitting here and there, like two butterflies in the sunshine, but always they came back to the subject with which they had started—the stage. At last, with a little start of recollection, she asked him the hour. He consulted his watch.

Five! he exclaimed, astonished.

Oh! She rose. Will I be late?

Oh, no—it will be quicker going back. It’s all downhill.

Do we go the same way?

No. We keep straight on, and go through the ‘Old Town.’

They started down the hill. The warmth had already begun to die out of the day. A faint veil of mist now marked the river’s course. The color of the sky was changing; the miracle of sunset was in progress. Look! exclaimed Edwin, suddenly. Julia, stopping, followed his gaze.

A new moon!

All slim and young! Hanging, like a feather, in the sky!

Wish! said Julia, softly.

I’m wishing!

They stood, mute, in the hush of the declining day. They seemed singularly alone—quite out of the world. Voices, coming distantly to them, only accentuated their isolation. From across the valley, the university chime sounded—faint, faint, and far away.

Isn’t it wonderful! murmured Edwin. In his voice was the sweet melancholy of youth. He felt that the world would never be quite like this again. He glanced at Julia. She was standing close to him. She turned her face to his. He thrilled with a sudden impulse to draw her to him, to hold her close, close—to kiss her, full upon the lips, in all the glory of her youth and his, up here, alone, and beneath the vast changes of the evening sky. He put his arm around her, his lips sought hers. But with a sudden, startled movement Julia Scarlet pulled away from him.

Don’t!

She turned upon him in a passion of restrained rage. Her face was white, her eyes blazing. Is this what you brought me up here for?

He stood, staring at her, so surprised that he could not frame a reply.

Can’t a man be alone with a girl, she demanded, with quivering contempt, without wanting to slobber over her?

He started, at the vulgarity of the phrase, as if he had been struck in the face, but again he could find no words in response.

You make a sick—the whole lot of you! she went on, furiously. Yes, I mean—physically sick! And then, in spite of herself, her tone moderated, beneath the shocked surprise, of his gaze. The mere fact that a girl is an actress makes you think that you can take any liberties, that you can—

Oh—no! That wasn’t it! Ned interrupted. Your being an actress had nothing to do with it. I hadn’t any idea of trying to kiss you. I mean, until just now. And then, all of a sudden, I wanted to—awfully—and I tried to, that’s all!—I’m sorry if I offended you, but still, a kiss isn’t anything so terribly serious—is it?

Yes it is, she replied, speaking quietly now, but still with passion, "when every Tom, Dick and Harry thinks that he can begin that way!"

Ned, shocked again, stared at her.

I’m sorry—he stammered.

So am I! said Julia unexpectedly. He looked, at that, so surprised that she could not restrain a smile. What I mean is, she said, I shouldn’t have classed you in with—with all the others. It’s just that I get rather tired of that sort of thing. You understand?

Of course I understand! Don’t be angry at me—Julia Scarlet!

I’m not.

Then—shake hands.

She gave him her hand. He took it in both of his own, and for a moment gazed into her eyes with a look that was more than an embrace.

And you’ll let me come to see you?

But I’m going away.

I mean, you’ll let me come to Detroit?

Yes.

And you’ll write me, after you leave Detroit?

She hesitated. Perhaps.

Not perhaps! Yes!

Well—yes—perhaps!

And you’ll never forget me?—never?—never?

Because you’ve been bad?

No—because I’ll be good. Because I’ll always be—just what you want me to be.

Always is a long word—Edwin Endsleigh.

That’s why I’m using it—Julia Scarlet.

Their eyes met again, and in that moment Julia longed for him, even as he did for her—could have gone gladly into his arms, and have met his kisses with her own. But she turned away.

We must be going! she said, and started down, down the hill. They went farther, in silence. In both of them joy mingled, sweetly, with pain.

But amid the confused welter of his emotions there was one fact which stood out joyously. The furtive query of his sensual waking hour had been adequately answered. Julia was straight. He got his answer. He had almost got a slap in the face, along with.

Chapter III

(1)

Julia had not permitted him to accompany her to the station. She made him say good-bye at the hotel. And before they parted, she had, at his insistence, renewed her promise that he might come to Detroit, on Thursday, for a walk and a talk. But on Wednesday, there arrived a letter which shattered that plan. Julia’s tour was at an end—and at what an end! The company manager, who had deferred payment of salaries from Saturday to Monday, had absconded, after the Monday night performance, taking with him the previous week’s receipts, and leaving the actors unpaid. As the company manager was, in this case, also the sole owner of the production, the result had been a complete financial disaster, and an abrupt termination of the tour.

So it’s back to New York, wrote Julia to Edwin. We’re almost stranded—but not quite, thank Heaven! I’ll write you again, from Broadway!

She had been true to her promise. She had, indeed, written him frequently. But only the first of her letters had come from New York. The next was from Yonkers. She was playing in a stock company there. Then, after a considerable hiatus, arrived a letter from the road. She had a small role in a third company of a piece which had just finished a run in New York. Her letters, after that, were posted from strange, small towns in New England—places of which Edwin had never even heard. I’m playing one-night stands, again, she wrote, but for the last time! My next engagement shall be on Broadway—or I’ll commit hari-kari on some manager’s doorstep!

Edwin, as he had planned, completed his work in Ann Arbor in the middle of the college year. He returned to Buffalo in February, to begin the writing of his play.

(2)

It proved to be an undertaking full of storm and stress, this writing of his first play. He began it in four acts, then compressed it to three, then decided that the last act was bad, and the first act, worse, and began it all over again. He intended to work only mornings and afternoons, but the time soon came when his evenings, also, were given up to wrestling with the problems of dramatic technique. And then, quite suddenly, there arose another difficulty, which was destined to cause him much more enduring torment than the exigencies of dramaturgy. For this new complication had its origin in nothing less significant than his own character, and his attitude toward life and toward his work.

Edwin Endsleigh, as has perhaps been sufficiently indicated, began his career with quite boundless ambitions. He was conscious himself of their fine sweep, their aspiring reach. It had not occurred to him, however, that among these ambitions were some which clashed, one with the other. He had not, in short, come to realize that an immediate, material success, and the production of really worthwhile work, may not be consonant—that they may, indeed, be distinctly dissonant. His awakening to this realization came, however, as it was bound to come, and his choice was, inevitably, presented to him. He was first brought vividly face to face with it after he had worked for some three months upon his play. The immediate cause of the envisaging of his problem was the reading of James Huneker’s Iconoclasts: A Book of Dramatists.

He had seen the volume quoted with high favor in the reviews, and he opened it with entirely pleasant anticipations. The table of contents had an exhilarating flavor. Some of the names—Ibsen, Shaw, Hauptmann, Sudermann, D’Annunzio, Maeterlinck—were familiar to him, but others—Strindberg, Henri Becque, Villiers de L’Isle Adam—these were pleasantly new; they had about them, for Edwin, something stirringly exotic.

He turned to the first page of the book, and began to read. As he read, he thrilled with sheer intellectual delight. Here, he felt, was the mental pabulum which he had been seeking, the inspiration which he craved. He could scarcely tear himself away from the book for his evening meal; and the moment he finished eating, he threw himself again upon the enchanting volume. It was late at night when he finished it, and when he went to bed, he could not sleep. His mind was a flame with the Nachtasyl of Gorky, with the disturbing genius of Strindberg, with the visions of Eleanora Duse, "delle belle mani" wandering, palely lovely, through La città morta. As he himself would describe it, he had gone on an intellectual jag. It did not occur to him that more rarefied intoxication might, like the commoner sort, entail a penalty of reaction.

When he arose, late the next morning, he was still completely under the dominance of what he had read the night before. He could not resist picking up Iconoclasts again, and glancing through its glamorous pages. Then, quite unsuspectingly, he went back to his desk, and to his play.

(3)

He had written a rough draft of his comedy, and was now at work upon its revision. He arrived, the day before, at the middle of the first act. It was at this point, accordingly, that he now took up his work. He wrote for half a page, but the dialogue came slowly, forcedly. Then, suddenly and appallingly, there flashed upon him the realization that he could not go on with his play. It was second rate—third-rate. It was piffle—drivel—he saw this, now, for the first time—saw it with quite shattering clearness. He saw more than that. In the same burst of illumination, he realized how it was that he brought forth this wretched half-creation.

He had made up his mind, when he began to work upon his play, that he would have a Broadway success. Instead of asking himself how he could bring forth that which was finest and best, he had set himself the inferior task of imitating the dramatic best sellers.

Instead of sitting at the feet of the intellectuals, of the truly inspired, and learning from their greatness, he played the sedulous ape to the masters of box office popularity. Instead of freeing his imagination and urging it, winged, to unaccustomed heights, he had cribbed and cabined and confined it, and giving it, for its furthermost goal, the achievement of a run on Broadway.

He thought of the plays which he had been reading, and of the popular pieces which he had been seeing, in the Buffalo theatres, and in the repertoires of the local stock company. He compared them with the works, whose glorious roster filled the Huneker volume—he thought of the quickening tang of Bernard Shaw, of the rich sensuousness of D’Annunzio, of the mystic charm of Maeterlinck, and, as he passed them in review, he was filled with a high shame. It seemed to him a dreadful, an incredible thing that he should have descended to the low level of endeavor upon which he now found himself stranded. He was stirred mightily with a new resolve. With all the force of his young enthusiasm, he desired to create something fine and lasting. Such, indeed, had always been his aspiration. He wondered, and was dumbfounded, that he could have strayed so far afield from it. He had always known that the one thing which made life worth living was to achieve greatly. And yet, here, at the very outset of his career, he found himself making base capitulation—a capitulation, indeed, the most ignoble that could be imagined. For he had not the excuse of having striven mightily and failed. He had offered the world no masterpiece, which had been rejected. He had suffered no pangs of disappointment, no rebuffs. He was, for the time being, comfortably circumstanced. Fate, and his own efforts, had given him six golden months, in which to create his first work, which should definitely indicate the nature and extent of his talent—or, at any rate, the reach of his ambition and of his ideals. And he set himself to bringing forth something which, he saw now, was destined to be decidedly below the level of his potential achievement.

He pondered upon his dereliction. As he did so, he became conscious of its affinity to his behavior in another and more youthful crisis—one which