Whatever he threatened left Eldon languid; the furthest thing from his thoughts was a continuance upon the abominable career he had insanely attempted.
He stalked with iron feet up the iron stairs to his dressing-room, put on his street clothes, and went to his hotel. He had forgotten to remove his greast-paint, the black on his eyebrows and under his eyes, or the rouge upon his mouth. A number of passers-by gave him the entire sidewalk and stared after him, wondering whether he were on his way to the madhouse or the hospital.
The immensity of the disaster to the play was its salvation. The audience had laughed itself to a state of exhaustion. The yelps of hilarity ended in sobs of fatigue. The well-bred were ashamed of their misbehavior and the intelligent were disgusted to realize that they had abused the glorious privilege of laughter and debauched themselves with mirth over an unimportant mishap to an unfortunate actor who had done nothing intrinsically humorous.
Sheila and Mrs. Vining went on with the scene, making up what was necessary and receiving the abjectly submissive audience’s complete sympathy for their plight and extra approval for their ingenuity in extricating themselves from it. When the curtain fell upon the act there was unusual applause.
To an actor the agony of “going up” in the lines, or “fading,” is not much funnier after the first surprise than the death or wounding of a soldier is to his comrade. The warrior in the excitement of battle may laugh hysterically when a friend or enemy is ludicrously maimed, when he crumples up and grimaces sardonically, or is sent heels over head by the impact of a shell. But there is little comfort in the laughter since the same fate may come to himself.
The actor has this grinning form of death always at his elbow. He may forget his lines because they are unfamiliar or because they are old, because another actor gives a slightly different cue, some one person laughs too loudly in the audience, or coughs, or a baby cries, or for any one of a hundred reasons. That fear is never absent from the stage. It makes every performance a fresh ordeal. And the actor who has faltered meets more sympathy than blame.
If Eldon had not sneaked out of the theater and had remained until the end of the play he would have found that he had more friends than before in the company. Even Batterson, after his tirade was over, regretted its violence, and blamed himself. He had sent a green actor out on the stage without rehearsal. Batterson was almost tempted to apologize—almost.
But Eldon was not to be found. He was immured in the shabby room of his cheap hotel sick with nausea and feverish with shame.
Somehow he lived the long night out. He read the morning papers fiercely through. There were no head-lines on the front page describing his ruinous incapacity. There was not even a word of allusion to him or his tragedy in the theatrical notices. He was profoundly glad of his obscurity and profoundly convinced that obscurity was where he belonged. He wrote out a note of humble apology and resignation. He resolved to send it by messenger and never to go near that theater again, or any other after he had removed his trunk.