She placed herself on the flowered silk sofa and
talked. "I am immensely interested in that play," she said. "It is quite unique. And you are so young, too—why, you seem just a boy. Really, you know, I think you must be a genius yourself."
Thyrsis murmured something, feeling uncomfortable.
"The only thing is," Miss Lewis went on, "it will need a lot of revision to make it practical."
"In what part?" he asked.
"The love-story, principally," said the other. "You see, in that respect, you have simply thrown your chances away."
"I don't understand," said he.
"You have made your hero act so queerly. Everyone feels that he is in love with Helena—you meant him to be, didn't you? And yet he goes away from her and won't see her! Everyone will be disappointed at that —it's impossible, from every point of view. You'll have to have them married in the last act."
Thyrsis gasped for breath.
"You see," continued Miss Lewis, "I am to play the part of Helena, and I am to be the star. And obviously? it would never do for me to be rejected, and left all up in the air like that. I must have some sort of a love-scene."
"But" -protested the poet—"what you want me to change is what my play is about!"
"How do you mean ?" asked the other.
"Why, it's a new kind of love," he stammered—"a different kind."
"But, people don't understand that kind of love."
"But, Miss Lewis, that's why I wrote my play! I want to make them understand."
"But you can't do anything like that on the stage," said Miss Lewis. "The public won't come to see your
play." And then she went on to explain to him the conditions of success in the business of the theatre.
Thyrsis listened, with a clutch as of ice about his heart. "I am very sorry, Miss Lewis," he said, at last —"but I couldn't possibly do what you ask."
"Couldn't do it!" cried the other, amazed.
"It would not fit into my idea at all."
"But, don't you want to get your play produced?"
"That's just it, I want to get my play produced. If I did what you want me to, it wouldn't be my play. It would be somebody else's play."
And there he stood. The actress argued with him and protested. She showed him what a great chance he had here—one that came to a new and unknown writer but once in a lifetime. Here was a manager ready to give him a good contract, and to put his play on at once in a Broadway theatre; and here was a public favorite anxious to have the leading role. It would be everything he could ask—it would be fame and fortune at one stroke. But Thyrsis only shook his head—he could not do it. He was almost sick with disappointment ; but it was a situation in which there was no use trying to compromise—he simply could not make a "love-story" out of "The Genius".
So at last there came a silence between them—there being nothing more for Miss Lewis to say.
"Then I suppose you won't want the play," said Thyrsis, faintly.
"I don't know," she answered, with vexation. "I'll have to think about it again, and talk to my manager. I had not counted on such a possibility as this."
And so they left it, and Thyrsis went away. The next morning he received a letter from "Robertson Jones, Inc.", asking him to call at once.
§ 3. ROBERTSON JONES, the great "theatrical producer", was large and ponderous, florid of face and firm in manner—the steam-roller type of business-man. And it became evident at once that he had invited Thyrsis to come and be rolled.
"Miss Lewis tells me you can't agree about the play," said he.
"No," said Thyrsis, faintly.
And then Mr. Jones began. He told Thyrsis what he meant to do with this play. Miss Lewis was one of the country's future "stars", and he was willing to back her without stint. He had permitted her to make her own choice of a role, and she should have her way in everything. There were famous playwrights bidding for a chance to write for her; but she had seen fit to choose "The Genius".
"Personally," said Mr. Jones, "I don't believe in the play. I would never think of producing it—it's not the sort of thing anybod}^ is interested in. But Miss Lewis likes it; she's been reading Ibsen, and she wants to do a 'drama of ideas', and all that sort of thing, you know. And that's all right—she's the sort to make a success of whatever she does. But you must do your share, and give her a part she can make something out of—some chance to show her charm. Otherwise, of course, the thing's impossible."
Mr. Jones paused. "I'm very sorry"—began Thyrsis, weakly.
"What's your idea in refusing?" interrupted the other.
Thyrsis tried to explain—that he had written the play to set forth a certain thesis, and that he was asked to make changes that directly contradicted this thesis.
THE END OF THE TETHER 367
"Have you ever had a play produced?" demanded the manager abruptly.
"No," said Thyrsis.
"Have you written any other plays?"
"No."
"Your first trial! Well, don't you think it a good deal to expect that your play should be perfect?"
"I don't think"—began Thyrsis.
"Can't you see," persisted the other, "that people who have been in this business all their lives, and have watched thousands of plays succeed and fail, might be able to give you some points on the matter?" -And then Mr. Jones went on to set forth to Thyrsis the laws of the theatrical game—a game in which there was the keenest competition, and in which the "ante" was enormously high. To produce "The Genius" would cost ten thousand dollars at the least; and were those who staked this to have no say whatever in the shaping of the play? Manifestly this was absurd; and as the manager pressed home the argument, Thyrsis felt as if he wanted to get up and run! When Mr. Jones talked to you, he looked you squarely in the eye, and you had a feeling of presumption, even of guilt, in standing out against him. Thyrsis shrunk in terror from that type of personality—he would let it have anything in the world it wanted, so only it would not clash with him. But never before had it demanded one of the children of his dreams!
Mr. Jones went on to tell how many things he would do for the play. It would go into rehearsal at once, and would be seen on Broadway by the first of February. They would pay him four, six and eight per cent., and his profits could not be less than three hundred dollars a week. With Ethelynda Lewis in the
"]
"
368 LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE
leading role the play might well run until June—and there would be the road profits the next season, in addition.
Thyrsis' brain reeled as he listened to this; it was in all respects identical with another famous temptation —"The devil taketh him upon a high mountain, and showeth him all the kingdoms of the earth!"
"And then there is England"—the man was saying.
"No, no!" cried Thyrsis, wildly. "No!"
'But why not?" demanded the other. 'It's impossible! I couldn't do it!"
"You mean you couldn't do the writing?"
"I wouldn't know how to!"
"Well then, that's easily arranged. Let me get some one to collaborate with you. There's Richard Haber-ton—you know who he is?"
"No," said Thyrsis, faintly.
"He's the author of 'The Rajah's Diamond'—it's playing with five companions now, and its third season. And he dramatized 'In Honor's Cause'—you've seen that, no doubt. We have paid him some sixty thousand dollars in royalties so far. And he'll take the play and fix it over—you wouldn't have to stir a finger."
Thyrsis sprang up in his agitation. "Please don't ask me, Mr. Jones," he cried. "I simply could not do it!"
It seemed strange to Thyrsis, when he thought it over afterwards, that the great Robertson Jones should have taken the trouble to argue so long with the unknown author of a play in which he did not believe. Was it that opposition incited him to persist? Or had he told Ethelynda Lewis he would get her what she wanted, and was now reluctant to confess defeat? At