The hour of the performance came; and Thyrsis, like a gambler who has staked all his possessions upon the turn of one card, sat in a box and watched the audience and the play. The house was crowded; and the play-wright saw with amazed relief that all his agonies of the night before had been needless—the performance went without a hitch from beginning to end. And also, to his unutterable delight, the play seemed to “score”. He had gazed at the rows of respectable burghers of this prosperous manufacturing town, and wondered what understanding they could have of his tragedy of “genius”. But they seemed to be understanding; at any rate they laughed and applauded; and when Lloyd smashed the violin over von Arne’s head and the curtain went down, there was quite a little uproar.
Thyrsis came out and made his timid speech, which was also applauded; and then came the last act, and the women got out their handkerchiefs on schedule time, and Mr. Rosenberg stood behind Thyrsis in the box, rubbing his hands together gleefully. So the play-wright sent a telegram to his wife, saying that the play was a certain success; and then he went to bed, assuredly the happiest man who had ever slept in that fifty-cent hotel!
But alas—the next morning, there were the local papers; and with one accord they all “roasted” the play! Their accounts of it sounded for all the world like the play itself—those extracts which the two professors had read from the criticisms of Lloyd’s concert! Thyrsis wondered if the critics must not have taken offence at the satire!
Then, going to the theatre, the first person he met was Rosenberg, who sent another chill to his heart. “First nights are always good,” said Mr. Rosenberg. “It was all ‘paper’, you know. To-night is the real test.”
And so the second performance came; and in the theatre were some two hundred people, and the occasion was the most awful “frost” that ever froze the heart of an unhappy partisan of the “drama of ideas”. After which, according to schedule, the play moved to another manufacturing town; and in the theatre were some two hundred and fifty people—and a frost some ten degrees lower yet!
Section 11. So at twelve o’clock that night there was a consultation in a room at the hotel, attended by Thyrsis and Miss Lewis and Mr. Tapping and Mr. Jones.
“You see,” said the last named; “the play is a failure.”
“Absolutely!” said Mr. Tapping.
“I knew it would be!” cried Miss Lewis.
“And you?” asked Mr. Jones of Thyrsis.