“ ’Course not. Our friend Eliphalet is shirking. He couldn’t do what we wanted, so he’s just turning on the old stuff, the old provincial tap.”
“Then please Heaven,” came from Franks, “he keeps up the flow till the end.”
And he did. All the bad provincial fake was reeled off—mere vocalisation and attitudinising, utterly misplaced, fitting the part nowhere, and for that very reason accepted by the high-browed Press and the novelty-seeking public as one of the finest dramatic conceptions of the day.
The Press raved about it. They went into ecstasies over the Art of Eliphalet and his “epic cynicism.” “Why had this marvellous depictor been denied to London?” they cried. “Doubtless,” said one, “much praise is due to the intellect of Mr. Wakefield, the brilliant producer, but for the actor himself no adulation could be too strong.”
And the “brilliant young producer” kicked himself heartily in that the praise should have been due to him for casting Eliphalet as Cellini, but that he had forfeited all claim thereunto by losing sight of his original intention out of pique.
The wonderful notices were brought to Eliphalet on the following morning as he lay in bed, and very gravely he read them through—and understood. There was no triumph in his eyes—the meaning of those cuttings was too clear. To Eliphalet they spelt failure, not fame. The words “epic cynicism” rang through his brain. Epic cynicism?—Yes, it was just that. And instead of rising, as for years he had dreamed he would do, and saying to his image in the glass, “Eliphalet, old boy, we’ve knocked ’em—knocked ’em hard,” he pulled the coverlet over his head and buried his face in the pillow.
“Benvenuto Cellini” ran ten weeks, during which time the secret of Eliphalet’s success was well preserved.
Oddly enough, Sir Owen Frazer, whose voice by this time was restored to him, was singularly free from enthusiasm with regard to the hit his confrère had made. People even went so far as to say that, had he been a lesser man, they would have suspected him of jealousy. Thus there was a good deal of astonishment when it became known that he had offered Eliphalet Cardomay the second lead in his new production.
Eliphalet received the part in company with an invitation to supper. He went over it very carefully and very suspiciously. Then he put it in his pocket and went forth to seek Raymond Wakefield.
“Read this,” he begged, “and open up your wonderful brain as to its potentialities.”