39
“My so-called St. Louis Express was late,” said Marion Morgan Bell. “I missed the show, and I haven’t even changed, but I hoped I could catch you before you left the theater.”
Isabella Cook was removing makeup in her Grand Opera House dressing room.
She inspected the tall blonde and liked what she saw. Stylish in a traveling outfit of tweed jacket, boot-length straight skirt, and a snug cloche hat, Marion Morgan had forthright sea-coral green eyes and a sure-footed smile — clearly a woman like herself who got things done and done right.
“Your husband claimed he was faithful to his wife. One look and I’m not surprised.”
“Sounds like you tested him.”
“It would have been a mug’s game. Have you eaten?”
“On the train, thank you.”
“Would you like a glass of wine — I’m having several.”
Her maid poured a glass of Billecart-Salmon Brut champagne for Marion and topped off Isabella’s, who said, “Your telegram was the first I’ve ever had that offered immortality.”
“Isaac wrote me that you expressed a low opinion of ‘movie manufacturing.’ I wanted to capture your attention.”
“You have it. What’s your pitch?”
“There will come a day when the last men and women who were thrilled by you tonight in St. Louis will pass from this earth and take their memory of your performance with them. But if you allow me to film your performance, it will live forever.”
“But I won’t live forever.”
“But we will both live longer than we can imagine when we’re this young. Isaac was just in London and he saw my film of King Edward’s funeral procession. I haven’t been in London in a year, but it’s still showing in the movie theaters. If you let me film your performance in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, you can see your Gabriella Utterson again and again, year after year, for the rest of your life — and so can your audience.”
“They’ll get bored after the second decade.”
“Not of the performance I saw in Columbus,” said Marion, and Isabella Cook laughed.
“Are you always so persuasive?”
“Only for good causes.”
“Do you have your Isaac wrapped around your finger?”
“We wrap each other.”
Isabella Cook sighed. “I’ll bet you do… Would he happen to have a brother?”
Marion shook her head, with a small smile. “He’s an only child. His mother died when he was a little boy… I want to move the play out of doors, beyond the confines of the stage.”
“Why?”
“When Mr. Hyde stalks your Gabriella in a storm, I want beautiful Central Park buffeted by a gale.”
“Why?”
“Death is a thief. It steals our joys. When we take Gabriella Utterson out of doors, we will see her joy in the sun, in the rain, in the snow and trees and sky — the joy she will lose if the evil in Jekyll and Hyde takes her life.”
“How do you go about ‘buffeting’?”
“I haven’t done any yet, but while I was shooting a comedy at Biograph last month, a scenic designer, Mr. Sennett, invented a wind machine that I’m going to try.”
“What is a ‘wind machine’?”
“An enormous propeller spun by an airplane motor.”
“Pointed at the actors?”
Marion Morgan smiled. “Did I promise it would be easy?”
Isabella Cook laughed.
“What do say, Miss Cook?”
“I am leery of any performance I can’t control. Technically, Mr. Barrett and Mr. Buchanan direct the play. But I do nothing on that stage that I don’t want to. I am an intelligent woman who trusts her instincts. But when your camera stops rolling, the show is only half done. I won’t be around when you make the final decisions pasting up the film the audience sees.”
“Of course you’ll be around.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m also an intelligent woman who trusts her instincts. My instinct tells me that you make decisions for the good of the show. Editing is a painstaking process. You may stand beside me as long as you can bear it.”
Isabella Cook put down her glass. She shook her head. “Why don’t we discuss this in the morning?”
Marion looked crestfallen.
Isabella Cook said, “Let me guess. You don’t want to see your Isaac if you can’t tell him you talked me into this.”
Marion nodded.
Isabella Cook said, “I have a hotel suite for when I’m bored with the train. Stay the night there. We’ll talk in the morning — but no promises.”
“Good morning, Mr. Bell!” cried the stage door tender at the Olympic Theatre, where Alias Jimmy Valentine was breaking St. Louis box office records. “How may we help you this morning?”
Expecting to have to talk his way into the star’s dressing room, Isaac Bell found himself greeted like royalty. News traveled fast in the theater, and angels backing new musicals were not turned away from stage doors.
“May I see Mr. Vietor?”
The door tender snapped his fingers. “Quinn!” he called to a sceneshifter, slouching nearby. “Take Mr. Bell to Mr. Vietor’s dressing room.”
Harry Warren tugged his forelock. “Right this way, Mr. Bell.”
Bell tipped him a dollar. “Here you go, pal.”
“Mighty generous, sir.” Quinn pocketed the dollar and banged on Vietor’s door. “Mr. Isaac Bell to see you, Mr. Vietor.”
The curly-haired Vietor flung his door open with a handsome smile. He was nearly as tall as Bell, and as tight and slim. He had a big voice. “Mr. Bell, I’ve heard so much about you. Do come in.”
Bell said, “I bring regards from a mutual acquaintance, James Mapes.”
“Mapes. Oh, cheery Mapes. What a happy soul. Did you see him in London?”
“We had drinks at the Garrick.”
“How did my name come up?”
“Mapes indicated an empty space on the portrait wall that was waiting for you.”
“Cheery Mapes. What a sweet thought. Come in, come in. Would you have a drink?”
“Thank you, no. I’ve got a long day ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”
“I’m the same way. Can’t touch a drop until the show is over. Sit, Bell. Sit.”
Bell took the armchair. Vietor perched on a stool at his makeup table. Turning half away from Bell, he studied the mirror. Bell wondered, why did he put on stage paint so early? Finally, Vietor glanced away from the glass, opened a drawer, and took out a silk jewelry sack.
“Have you seen the show?”
“In New York. I told Mapes I truly believed that your Jimmy Valentine was going straight.”
Vietor untied the drawstrings, fished out a gold ring, and began fiddling with it.
“Did Mapes tell you he coached me?”
“He sounded very proud of your success,” said Bell. “He believes it’s your Jimmy Valentine that will put you on the wall at the Garrick.”
Vietor watched the ring fly between his fingers. “I’ll bet he said I was a dark soul.”
The actor’s manic excitement had bounced unexpectedly from exhilaration to contemplation, and Bell saw an opportunity to draw him out. “Mapes said, ‘Subduing the dark side of Vietor’s character was like pulling teeth.’”
“Ha! He loves that silly phrase— How old do you think I am?”
Bell studied him closely. “Forty-six.”
“My Lord! Where did you get that idea?”