A Pasteboard Crown: A Story of the New York Stage

by Clara Morris

But he was swift of foot, and was soon back in his place at the office window, while, dainty package in hand, his employer came out, crossed the vestibule, and, entering his private office, proceeded to untie his parcel and pour the fragrant, crystallized violets into a charming bonbonnière standing on the corner of his desk.

The prevailing tone of this room was a dull, rich red, and it made an agreeable background for the figure of the man standing there, Stewart Thrall, the actor-manager of the Globe Theatre, who was at that moment expecting a call from the popular actress, Claire Morrell, and a certain young lady who wished (oh, foolish young lady!) to go upon the stage. A tall man, of excellent figure. He was a well-groomed, clean-skinned man. There was nothing of the long-haired, floating necktied, fur-coated, comic-journal actor about him. He was no "beauty man," either; but, as a certain very great lady had once truly said, "He had eyes and a manner."

A charming manner it was—gracious, graceful, sincere. And as one takes a certain simple base for a sauce, and, by adding various flavors or acids, produces innumerable different sauces, so to that natural manner he, by adding a touch of dignity or sternness or jollity or deprecation, came very near making himself all things to all men. His closely cropped hair was black—not the blue-black of the Latins, but that darkest brown that is America's black—and his eyes were those Irish blue ones that are "smudged in" with black lashes, luminous, quick sparkling, softly darkening, wooing, winning, faithless eyes—an actor's eyes par excellence, but with a droop of the heavily fringed lids that played sad havoc with the dreams of the romantic girl patrons of the theatre.

Stewart Thrall was a popular idol. His stroll down the sweet sunny side of Broadway was a triumphal progress. Glances, smiles, turning heads, and flattering remarks trailed after him like a tail to the kite of his vogue. He had earned his popularity—it had not been thrust upon him. He had been shrewd and clever and determined. He had acted up to the motto of his choice: "To be agreeable." He made everything serve him. If he had a friend in a high place he never forgot it or allowed anyone else to forget it either. If he went occasionally to church on a fine Sunday, where wealthy pewholders vied with one another in courteous hospitality, he saw to it that that was the church attended by his banker. "The recollection will do him no harm and may do me a service," he would say to himself with a laugh. When he went to a dance he never failed to bestow attentions upon any homely girl or woman who wore jewels, and in more than one instance the effects of such a one's gratitude had been distinctly felt in the box-office.

But these wealthy wall-flowers were never waltzed with. The very prettiest girl in the room could be relied upon to arrange her card to favor this man with the speaking eyes. And so, with drooping lids in full evidence, he swayed and whirled, reversed and backed, apparently by instinct, since his challenging glance never left his partner's face. He would think triumphantly of the two birds he had brought down with one stone, winning gratitude from one and a flirtation from another.

Nor did he fail "to be agreeable" to humble people, for no one knew better than he how swift were the ups and downs of his profession. Therefore, he treated with friendly consideration the "nobody" who might be a "somebody" the next time he saw him. Gravely respectful to the gray old solid men of commerce, hail fellow with that body of men known as "the boys," gambling just enough to keep in friendly touch with the big guns of the business, and seemingly ready to give up his very soul to the reporters, he was a matinée idol, a successful man, a general favorite. And yet, after all, disappointed; so many brief, transient loves had he known; so many charming hypocrites had made a farce of the grand passion, depriving it of any touch of sanctity, that now an apathetic weariness had come upon him, and yet that was not the worst. No one could have forced the confession from him, but in his heart he admitted his defeat. He had started out to win fame, but had attained only notoriety; and though he sneered and said to himself: "Fame has generally gone hungry, and I at least am well fed and have a nice little story to read in my bank-book," he was, all the same, a disappointed man.

As he turned to toss the paper wrapper and bits of ribbon from his parcel into the waste-basket his eyes encountered a picture of himself as the young Laertes. And he paused, looked at it frowningly, and commented: "You poor young fool! What a burning mass of hope and ambition you were! So honestly believing in acting as a veritable art, and—and forgetting everything in the joy of it! Damned if you didn't! But Lord! that was before you found your motto and began 'to be agreeable' to the world! Couldn't serve two gods, could you, sonny? Well, being agreeable has paid, in some ways. But I have put up with your reproachful glances long enough. I think I'll take you down from there and send you over to the Missus. You won't hurt her the way you do me!" And, with a half-laughing, half-frowning face, he stepped on a low couch, that he might reach and lift down the offending, boyish Laertes.

He hurried a bit, for he knew that Claire Morrell was very exact in keeping her appointments, and that she might come in at any moment now, with her confounded stage-struck protégée, to whom he would never have given a thought, let alone an engagement, for he hated amateurs, had it not been that he had met the clever and witty, if ancient, Mrs. Van Camp, and knew her to be of the best old Dutch stock. Therefore, it would rather flatter his vanity to be able to exploit the name of her god-daughter as a member of his company, if only she might not be too heavy a load of awkward self-consciousness—if only she might be moderately good-looking. And then he set the picture down hard, with its long wire hooping, and coiling, like a live and very angry thing about it, and whistled, exclaiming aloud: "Oh, by Jove! I wonder if either of those bright and pretty girls the Morrell had with her last night might be the protégée? They were both charming, but how that dark one did light up when Morrell led the applause for my Queen Mab speech! But no such luck, I suppose!"

And, man-fashion, he drew out his handkerchief to dust the small wingless Love on the pedestal between the draped curtains of a mock-window, whose long Holland shade really covered a very narrow door, spring locked and never used—never, one could readily understand that from the inconvenience of its approach, but Mr. Thrall carried the key.

And out in Broadway Claire Morrell was saying: "It's so very tiring, this shopping; suppose, Miss Lawton, that we step in at the theatre and see if Mr. Thrall is there now, instead of making a special trip to-morrow. If he is in he will see us, if he has gone home we can cool off in the dark auditorium. What do you say, Miss Dorothy?"