“And you would present it exactly as it is written?” said Pomfret in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Yes. Not a line would be altered. It’s not ordinary theater stuff. In this case it’s the spirit of the thing that is going to matter and that must not be tampered with on any account.”
Pomfret sat, a picture of whimsical incredulity, but Brandon, burning with the zeal of the evangelist, was now unequal to the change that the prudence of this world had laid upon him. Urban Meyer had been visited by the divine wisdom, and Brandon could not withhold acknowledgment of a fact so signal and so astonishing.
“The theater is my religion,” the little man went on, and his queer eyes grew suddenly fixed as if they were looking at something. “I believe in it as I believe in nothing else. When you’ve watched millions of people going crazy over stunts like ‘Baby’s Bedsocks,’ the original smile-with-a-tear-in-it, you ask yourself what could be done by a real play with a live message. As I say, the theater is the church of the future. There’s no limit to its power; it speaks to the masses, cheers them, strengthens them, makes them healthy, lifts them up; it takes them into worlds beyond their own. And they understand its language.
“Now this play, as I see it, is a test case. It’s not theater stuff of the ordinary brand and it’s got to be played just as it is, in the spirit of reverence. It may fall down, and fall down badly, but I’d like to produce it as an act of faith, for the love I bear humanity.”
Pomfret could hardly believe his ears. Something had happened to the little man. He had known Urban Meyer nearly twenty years, and it was hard to relate this gush of altruism with the impresario whose astuteness was a byword all over the world. For one thing, and it amused Pomfret vastly, in the stress of his enthusiasm he had even forgotten to discuss the terms of the contract.
They came to that presently, and then a sight for the gods presented itself. With the aid of racial instincts ruthlessly applied, Urban Meyer had taken an immense fortune out of the theater, but now, entering it as a missionary, he was willing to make a contract which added greatly to Pomfret’s perplexity.
“It’s double what I’ve ever offered to a new man,” said Urban Meyer, “but as I say, this production is going to be an act of faith. I believe in God, I believe in the theater, I believe in this play and that’s the basis on which I invite the world to come in. If it falls down I may be out a hundred thousand dollars, but I shall not grudge a nickel, because no man can serve God and serve Mammon at the same time.”
Moreover, to judge by a new glow in a quaintly Semitic countenance, Urban Meyer felt immensely strengthened by being in a position to make that assertion. He was not puffed up, but a light of enthusiasm played over his face which somehow made him better to look at. “Nothing is but thinking makes it so! To a man of imagination that means all that ever was and ever will be. And if you keep on expecting miracles to happen, miracles are bound to happen—if only you expect in the right way.”
Pomfret could only smile perplexedly, but Brandon, flooded by a happiness rare and strange, was overborne by the workings of the divine providence. For a moment he was submerged by wild speculations, and then he awoke with a start to the fact that a sudden hand had been laid on his shoulder.