For thirty years it had passed for Art with him—thirty unchangeable years. Did reality for the stage actually exist, or was it a mere modern fetish? Change—Futurism—Realism! What were they but ugly likenesses of nature—the human frame with all its bones showing?
The moon was a fairy over the sea, and the sea a playground for the moods of light—unchangeable, unreal, as it was in the beginning.
“There is no realism,” mused Eliphalet. “It plays no part in our spiritual lives.”
Then a rubber-soled policeman came down the esplanade, and spoke harsh words regarding folk who walked the night in carpet-slippers and dressing-gowns. He instanced cases where heavy penalties had been awarded for lesser offences, and followed Eliphalet to his lodging with flashing bull’s-eye and threatening mien.
“Yes—yes—yes,” said Eliphalet testily. “Very sorry, and if you are not satisfied, come round and we’ll fix things up in the morning.”
Slightly distressed, he returned to bed. It was surprising he should have used the word “fix.” Curious how one adapts oneself to a change—even of vocabulary. “A Man’s Way” was certainly a fine play—realistic—human!
Mr. Theodore Lennard lived at Worthing and duly received the letter on the following morning. A young man was Mr. Lennard, shy and retiring to a fault but gifted with strong faculties for literary force. He could make his characters express themselves most vigorously—in fact, say things which he himself, under similar stresses of emotion, would never dare to utter. He wrote easily, frankly and honestly, and he loved his characters and envied them their vigour and lovable qualities. It was pitiful to reflect that he, with his knowledge of how a strong man should act, should be as pliable as a reed in the wind.
Beyond question the world should have known the works of Theodore Lennard long before this story was written, and the reason why he was still obscure was because never before had he had the courage to submit any of his writings for approval.
This was his first experiment, and lo, within three days of posting it, came a letter from an established stage personality expressive of admiration.
Mr. Lennard read and re-read Eliphalet Cardomay’s non-committal communication, and his elation knew no bounds. He felt he had been discovered—a stupendous feeling. America must have been conscious of it when Christopher Columbus hove over her horizon.