XVI
If the young dramatist had been disappointed by Miss Delacourt’s apparent lack of interest in his play and in the part of Gertrude on the occasion of that first luncheon, he was quickly reassured by the energetic way in which, beginning with the next day, she threw herself into her work. As soon as she had time “to roll up her sleeves,” as she expressed it, she plunged into the rehearsals, an incarnation of work and enthusiasm.
To be sure, she put the author through some uncomfortable hours while she criticized his piece and suggested many important changes with her usual frankness and point. She “combed it out,” as she said, line by line, and convinced him, against his will, that he should cut freely and sharpen his dialogue all through. Moreover, she set him right on several subtle points in the heroine’s psychology.
“She knows what she’s about, too,” Farson reported to Brainard. “I don’t see how she’s done it, but in her flip way she’s absorbed a lot in Europe. She knows what all of them are doing. She was quoting Brieux, Barrie, and Shaw at me last night all in one gulp. I must rewrite that third curtain to suit her ladyship.”
“You must remember that you are dealing with a star,” Brainard observed dryly. “Louisiana may be new to the firmament, but she knows instinctively what belongs to her starship.”
In much the same manner the new leading lady took hold of the other players, and “shook ’em all by the neck and woke ’em up.” There were but three weeks left, and she wore the company almost to the point of revolt by the long rehearsals she demanded. When they grumbled, she read them a characteristic lecture.
“It’s your last stunt for the old People’s. You know you have all got a lot out of the concern—for one thing, better pay than some of you will ever see again; and much more besides. So show that you’ve got something warm inside your anatomy where your hearts ought to be—at least a dog’s gratitude for the hand that’s fed you. The piece is all right, too; it will make the jaded pulse of Broadway flutter like an ingénue. Just you give the public a chance to discover that here is a play as is a play!”
During these strenuous weeks of rehearsal Brainard was absent most of the time in Arizona and Washington, where the already celebrated case of the Krutzmacht widow was now imminent. He had come to believe that Farson had more than a professional interest in his Gertrude, and he preferred to be absent from the scene of the wooing; but on the day of the dress rehearsal of Her Great Adventure he returned to New York and dropped in at the theater on his way home, slipping into a seat in the rear of the dim house.
The piece went with amazing swiftness and smoothness, thanks to the hard work Miss Delacourt had got out of the company. Absorbed by the play, Brainard was completely taken out of the wearying round of his daily perplexities.
“It is a play,” he muttered excitedly to himself, “and they do it wonderfully well. That girl is almost great. If the public will only come to see her, and not believe what the newspapers say, they’ll understand. She’s an actress!”