Chapter CV: Section 3: Robertson Jones, the great “theatrical producer”, was large

and ponderous, florid of face and firm in manner--the steam-roller type of business-man. And it became evident at once that he had invited Thyrsis to come and be rolled.

“Miss Lewis tells me you can’t agree about the play,” said he.

“No,” said Thyrsis, faintly.

And then Mr. Jones began. He told Thyrsis what he meant to do with this play. Miss Lewis was one of the country’s future “stars”, and he was willing to back her without stint. He had permitted her to make her own choice of a role, and she should have her way in everything. There were famous playwrights bidding for a chance to write for her; but she had seen fit to choose “The Genius”.

“Personally,” said Mr. Jones, “I don’t believe in the play. I would never think of producing it--it’s not the sort of thing anybody is interested in. But Miss Lewis likes it; she’s been reading Ibsen, and she wants to do a ‘drama of ideas’, and all that sort of thing, you know. And that’s all right--she’s the sort to make a success of whatever she does. But you must do your share, and give her a part she can make something out of--some chance to show her charm. Otherwise, of course, the thing’s impossible.”

Mr. Jones paused. “I’m very sorry”--began Thyrsis, weakly.

“What’s your idea in refusing?” interrupted the other.

Thyrsis tried to explain--that he had written the play to set forth a certain thesis, and that he was asked to make changes that directly contradicted this thesis.

“Have you ever had a play produced?” demanded the manager abruptly.

“No,” said Thyrsis.

“Have you written any other plays?”

“No.”

“Your first trial! Well, don’t you think it a good deal to expect that your play should be perfect?”

“I don’t think”--began Thyrsis.

“Can’t you see,” persisted the other, “that people who have been in this business all their lives, and have watched thousands of plays succeed and fail, might be able to give you some points on the matter?”--And then Mr. Jones went on to set forth to Thyrsis the laws of the theatrical game--a game in which there was the keenest competition, and in which the “ante” was enormously high. To produce “The Genius” would cost ten thousand dollars at the least; and were those who staked this to have no say whatever in the shaping of the play? Manifestly this was absurd; and as the manager pressed home the argument, Thyrsis felt as if he wanted to get up and run! When Mr. Jones talked to you, he looked you squarely in the eye, and you had a feeling of presumption, even of guilt, in standing out against him. Thyrsis shrunk in terror from that type of personality--he would let it have anything in the world it wanted, so only it would not clash with him. But never before had it demanded one of the children of his dreams!

Mr. Jones went on to tell how many things he would do for the play. It would go into rehearsal at once, and would be seen on Broadway by the first of February. They would pay him four, six and eight per cent., and his profits could not be less than three hundred dollars a week. With Ethelynda Lewis in the leading role the play might well run until June--and there would be the road profits the next season, in addition.

Thyrsis’ brain reeled as he listened to this; it was in all respects identical with another famous temptation--“The devil taketh him upon a high mountain, and showeth him all the kingdoms of the earth!”

“And then there is England”--the man was saying.

“No, no!” cried Thyrsis, wildly. “No!”

“But _why_ not?” demanded the other.

“It’s impossible! I _couldn’t_ do it!”

“You mean you couldn’t do the writing?”

“I wouldn’t know how to!”

“Well then, that’s easily arranged. Let me get some one to collaborate with you. There’s Richard Haberton--you know who he is?”

“No,” said Thyrsis, faintly.

“He’s the author of ‘The Rajah’s Diamond’--it’s playing with five companions now, and its third season. And he dramatized ‘In Honor’s Cause’--you’ve seen that, no doubt. We have paid him some sixty thousand dollars in royalties so far. And he’ll take the play and fix it over--you wouldn’t have to stir a finger.”

Thyrsis sprang up in his agitation. “Please don’t ask me, Mr. Jones,” he cried. “I simply _could_ not do it!”

It seemed strange to Thyrsis, when he thought it over afterwards, that the great Robertson Jones should have taken the trouble to argue so long with the unknown author of a play in which he did not believe. Was it that opposition incited him to persist? Or had he told Ethelynda Lewis he would get her what she wanted, and was now reluctant to confess defeat? At any rate, so it was--he went on to drive Thyrsis into a corner, to tear open his very soul. Also, he manifested anger; it was a deliberate affront that the boy should stand out like this. And Thyrsis, in great distress of soul, explained that he did not mean it that way--he apologized abjectly for his obstinacy. It was the _ideas_ that he had tried to put into his play, and that he could not give up!

“But,” persisted the manager--“write other plays, and put your ideas into them. If you’ve once had a Broadway success, then you can write anything you please, and you can make your own terms for production.”

That thought had already occurred to Thyrsis; it was the one that nearly broke down his resistance. He would probably have surrendered, had the play not been so fresh from his mind, and so dear to him; if he had had time enough to become dissatisfied with it, as he had with his first novel--or discouraged about its prospects, as he had with “The Hearer of Truth”! But this child of his fancy was not yet weaned; and to tear it from his breast, and hand it to the butcher--no, it could not be thought of!