The moment had come when Peregrine must launch himself into one of those pre-production pep-talks upon which a company sets a certain amount of store. More, however, was expected of him, now, than the usual helping of “We’re all going to love this, so let’s get cracking” sort of thing. For once he felt a full validity in his own words when he clasped his hands over his play and said: “This is a great occasion for me.” He waited for a second and then, abandoning everything he had so carefully planned, went on. “It’s a great occasion for me because it marks the rebirth of an entrancing playhouse: something I’d longed for and dreamed of and never, never thought to see. And then: to be given the job I have been given of shaping the policy and directing the productions and—as a final and incredible bon-bouche—the invitation to open with my own play. I do hope you’ll believe me when I say all this makes me feel not only immensely proud but extremely surprised and—although it’s not a common or even appropriate emotion in a director-playwright—very humble.
“It might have been more politic to behave as if I took it all as a matter of course and no more than my due, but I’d rather, at the outset, and probably for the last time, say that I can’t get over my good fortune. I’m not the first dramatist to have a bash at the man from Warwickshire and I’m sure I won’t be the last. In this piece I’ve— well, you’ve seen, I hope, what I’ve tried to do. Show the sort of combustion that built up in that unique personality: the terrifying sensuality that lies beyond the utterly unsentimental lyricism — gilded flies under daisies pied and violets blue. His only release, his only relief, you might say, has been his love for the boy Hamnet. It’s his son’s death that brings about the frightful explosion in his own personality, and the moment when Rosaline (I have always believed the Dark Lady was a Rosaline) pulls Hamnet’s glove on her hand is the climax of the entire action. The physical intrusion and his consent to it brings him to the condition that spewed up Timon of Athens and was seared out of him by his own disgust. I’ve tried to suggest that for such a man the only possible release is through his work. He would like to be an Antony to Rosalind’s Cleopatra, but between himself and that sort of surrender stands his genius. And—incidentally—the hard-headed bourgeois of Stratford which also, he is.”
Peregrine hesitated. Had he said anything? Was it any good trying to take it further? No.
“I won’t elaborate,” he said. “I can only hope that we’ll find out what it’s all about as we work together.” He felt the abrupt upsurge of warmth that is peculiarly of the theatre.
“I hope, too, very much,” he said, “that we’re going to agree together. It’s a great thing to be starting a playhouse on its way. They say dolphins are intelligent and gregarious creatures. Let us be good Dolphins and perform well together. Bless you all.”
They responded at once and all blessed him in return and for the occasion, at least, felt uplifted and stimulated and, in themselves, vaguely noble.
“And now,” he said, “let’s look at Jeremy Jones’s sets and then it’ll be almost time to drink a health to our enterprise. This is a great day.”
Following the reading there was a small party, thrown by the Management and thrown with a good deal of quiet splendour. It was held in the circle foyer with the bar in full array. The barman wore a snowy white shirt, flamboyant waistcoat and gold albert. There was a pot-boy with his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders like the one in Our Mutual Friend. The waiters were conventionally dressed but with a slight Victorian emphasis. Champagne in brass-bound ice buckets stood along the mahogany bar and the flowers, exclusively, were crimson roses set in fern leaves.
Mr. Greenslade was the host. Apart from the company, Jeremy, Winter Meyer, the publicity agents and the stage-director and his assistant, there were six personages of startling importance from the worlds of theatre, finance, the press and what Mr. Meyer, wide-eyed, described as “the sort you can’t, socially speaking, look any higher than.” From a remark let fall by Mr. Greenslade, Peregrine was led to suppose that behind their presence could be discerned the figure of Mr. Conducis who, of course, did not attend. Indeed it was clear from the conversation of the most exalted of these guests that Mr. Conducis was perfectly well known to be the presiding genius of The Dolphin.
“A new departure for V.M.C.,” this personage said. “We were all astonished.” (Who were “we”?) “Still, like the rest of us, one supposes, he must have his toys.”
Peregrine wondered if it would have been possible for him to have heard a more innocently offensive comment.
“It’s a matter of life and death to us,” he said. The personage looked at him with amusement.
“Is it really?” he said. “Well, yes. I can see that it is. I hope all goes well. But I am still surprised by the turn of V.M.C.’s fancy. I didn’t think he had any fancies.”
“I don’t really know him,” said Peregrine.
“Which of us does?” the personage rejoined. “He’s a legend in his own lifetime and the remarkable thing about that is: the legend is perfectly accurate.” Well content with this aphorism he chuckled and passed superbly on, leaving an aftermath of cigar, champagne and the very best unguents for the Man.
“If I were to become as fabulously rich as that,” Peregrine wondered, “would I turn into just such another? Can it be avoided?”
He found himself alongside Emily Dunne, who helped in Jeremy’s shop and was to play Joan Hart in The Glove. She had got the part by audition and on her performance, which Peregrine had seen, of Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
She had a pale face with dark eyes and a welcoming mouth. He thought she looked very intelligent and liked her voice, which was deepish.
“Have you got some champagne?” asked Peregrine. “And would you like something to eat?”
“Yes and no, thank you,” said Emily. “It’s a wonderful play. I can’t get over my luck, being in it. And I can’t get over The Dolphin, either.”
“I thought you looked as if you were quite enjoying it. You read Joan exactly right. One wants to feel it’s a pity she’s Will’s sister because she’s the only kind of woman who would ever suit him as a wife.”
“I think before they were both married she probably let him in by a side-window when he came home to Henley Street in the early hours after a night on the tiles.”
“Yes, of course she did. How right you are. Do you like cocktail parties?”
“Not really, but I always hope I will.”
“Tve given that up, even.”
“Do you know, when I was playing at The Mermaid over a year ago, I used to look across the river to The Dolphin, and then one day I walked over Blackfriars Bridge and stood in Wharfingers Lane and stared at it. And then an old, old stagehand I knew told me his father had been on the curtain there in the days of Adolphus Ruby. I got a sort of thing about it. I found a book in a sixpenny rack called The Buskin and the Boards. It was published in 1860 and it’s all about contemporary theatres and actors. Terribly badly written, you know, but there are some good pictures and The Dolphin’s one of the best.”
“Do let me see it.”
“Of course.”
“I had a thing about The Dolphin, too. What a pity we didn’t meet in Wharfingers Lane,” said Peregrine. “Do you like Jeremy’s models? Let’s go and look at them.”
They were placed about the foyer and were tactfully lit. Jeremy had been very intelligent: the sets made single uncomplicated gestures and were light and strong-looking and beautifully balanced. Peregrine and Emily had examined them at some length when it came to him that he should be moving among the guests. Emily seemed to be visited by the same notion. She said: “I think Marcus Knight is wanting to catch your eye. He looks a bit portentous to me.”