Chapter II: Footlights!

_“Here is our Drama played, our Farce begun....
Here our souls speak their mirth and grief and rage--
Satires in silk, light wit, and passion’s heat,
Unspoken pain, hid sorrows, amours fleet
And all the vanities with which we play
Our pose of yester and our real today.”_

HUGO VON HOFMANNSTHAL--_Prologue to Schnitzler’s
“Anatol” (Trans. T. Blackmore)_

1

The sword of the sun! It was a bright, piercing day.

Howard was pleasantly excited over the prospect of Algeria’s arrival. His green eyes were softer, almost brown, when he was interested or occupied. Em was gentle before his evident emotion, even though it was for another. It exists, anyway. She felt that until she saw Les again life was only watching others live.

The steamer was not to dock until ten o’clock, but he rose early and shaved and dressed with great care. Thank God, the day was beautiful! Em was kind and maternal toward his eager anticipation. Her jealous agony had passed. Cicely--Les is here again!

“Shouldn’t you like to go, Em?” Howard had asked half-heartedly.

“I don’t think so,” she had replied with a smile.

Although it was only eight o’clock, Howard hurried through his breakfast. At nine he went out. Em spent the day at home, half-expecting his return and musing over his enthusiasm for Algeria. Now that Les was in New York, what Howard felt and did seemed so much less important. She had a vague sense of waiting.

2

It was nearly four o’clock and Howard had not come.

The bell rang. Em opened the door. Genevieve stood in the hall. Her clear eyes were a little hard. Em seized her in a fierce hug.

“Why, Jen, how sweet of you!”

“Are you alone?” asked Genevieve sternly, responding stiffly and almost indignantly to the embrace.

“Yes,” said Em joyfully. “Come in, darling.” Genevieve allowed herself to be led into the room. “I’m _so_ glad to see you!” declared Em boisterously, pushing Genevieve into a chair and kissing her again.

Genevieve remained severe.

“You’ve not shown yourself very anxious--”

Em knelt by her friend.

“Jen--please, Jen; there are--things--”

“There are.” Genevieve softened and she took Em’s hand in hers. “That’s why I’m here. I can’t understand you, Em. If I come _here_, you know that--”

“I know, Jen.” Em nestled against her. She did not want to hear more.

“How are you and Stuart, Jen?”

“Oh, life is about as cheerful as a crutch just now. Stuart continues to get flattering letters from editors, but no checks--all jobs melt at one glance of my beautiful eyes. But I didn’t come to say that. Les came down to our place last night, and--”

“I’ve seen him,” said Em excitedly.

There was a sound at the door. Both girls started nervously.

“I must go,” said Genevieve decisively, her expression becoming instantly hard and uneasy.

“Please don’t, Jen, _please_--” Genevieve seemed part of Les.

“All right.” Genevieve lifted her head rather dramatically and bit her lips.

Em rose and seated herself in a casual attitude on a chair opposite Genevieve. Howard entered. His step was swinging and he removed his hat and overcoat with energetic movements.

“Good afternoon,” he said vigorously. Genevieve’s remoteness piqued and irritated him. Who was _she_! Damned commercial artist--pot boilers--lady’s magazine--

Genevieve bowed with cold distinction.

“Good afternoon,” she replied in her most perfect accent.

Howard tried to be oblivious to them both.

“Did Miss Westover come?” asked Em casually. A repressed happiness clung about her.

“Yes, a mob of people to meet her. They’ve carried her off to half a dozen places, but she’s coming here to tea.” He began to bustle about collecting trays, cups and saucers and other tea things.

“I really must go.” Genevieve rose elegantly.

“Don’t go, Jen.” Em’s eyes were pleading. She wanted an opportunity to talk alone with Genevieve, away from Stuart and Michael and the others.

“Won’t you stay and have some of my tea?” offered Howard, staring at Genevieve with insulting yet insidiously complimentary attention. Genevieve was looking her best.

“I really mustn’t.” She half rose.

“I’ll walk along with you then,” Em announced determinedly, rising also.

“I’d hoped you’d both stay and meet Algeria.” Howard’s tone was friendly, but deliberately perfunctory.

Em pressed Genevieve’s arm persuasively.

“It’s really very good of you--” Genevieve began with a sarcastic intonation.

Em clapped her hands.

“Yes, Jen, please. Oh, that’s fine!” Em glanced gratefully at Howard.

Genevieve, feeling helpless and excited by her own capitulation, sank gracefully in her chair.

3

Tea was ready. Howard paced the floor, glancing from time to time at his watch and talking with unusual geniality. The sunlight was already fading. Em’s curiosity at his impatience was not resentful. He’s like a child before a doll party, she thought. The tea grew cold. Howard made some fresh. This, too, was growing cold. He heated water for another brew, leaving the kettle on the stove in the kitchenette. Em’s cheeks glowed. I wonder if Les--At last the bell rang. Howard rushed to the door.

“A dramatic late arrival,” whispered Genevieve to Em. Algeria swam into the room, followed by Gouvain and three humble satellites unknown either to Em or Genevieve. Pausing, erect, to get the effect on her audience, Algeria toddled forward, a hand on each breast, her head back. She ambled into the group like a giant Geisha girl. “‘Enter Madame!’” Genevieve murmured cattily.

Everything about Algeria seemed to float. Her entire costume appeared to be made of scarves. A pink chiffon scarf was about her head, the loose ends wafting in long streamers as she turned. When her dull lilac-colored cloak was removed by obsequious hands, another enveloping scarf of pink chiffon was seen to cover her shoulders. This clung about her and, following the gestures of her arms in emphasis to her conversation, long free banners of it waved through the air. There were also lesser mauve stringers--festooned to her somehow and somewhere--there was no doubt as to the effect.

She halted and sent a dazzling smile around the room.

“Here is the Troll Maiden!” she trilled, roguishly rising to her tiptoes and throwing kisses in every direction. “I’d just _love_ to hug all you peeties!”

Algeria had an interesting Flemish face but she tried, by cultivating a piquant expression and by making her eyes twinkle, to look Gallic. She was thinking now of the effect on Howard of her conquering entrance. A glance assured her that he still seemed impressed. She had been secretly perturbed over the reports of Em’s influence. Algeria never relinquished a conquest without a struggle. She was really clever and relentless. Every thought and gesture was conscious. Followers might rebel, but they remained. She was relieved at the sight of Em’s sensitive face and straightforward manner. That Strang woman is the dangerous one, she thought.

“This is Miss Tyler,” said Howard.

“Is _this_ the wonderful Emily? My dear, you’re _succulent_!” Hesitating an instant with a demure grimace, Algeria trotted forward, seized Em, who had approached to shake hands, and kissed her rapturously. Algeria usually gushed the most over people she resented or feared. She thought quickly. The situation was somewhat special.

“And Miss Strang,” continued Howard.

Genevieve stood her ground warily.

“Miss Westover,” she responded in the apotheosis of her most patrician bearing.

But Algeria’s widely curved mouth kept smiling, a perfect painted smile of sophisticated ingenuousness. Her sharply penciled eyes expressed what seemed frank enjoyment of her own daring. She had already recognized someone worthy of her best resources.

“Ah, yes, _where_ have I seen Miss Strang?”

“I don’t think you’ve seen me,” said Genevieve delicately, “although I’ve seen you rather often.”

Algeria laughed merrily. She was never disconcerted. When she began something seriously and dramatically and failed to produce her effect, she always deftly changed the attempt to a jest.

“_Now_ I’m sure we’re old friends,” she declared with silvery hilarity.

The admiring satellites, one equine girl and two anemic young men, were perfunctorily introduced.

“You sit there, Algeria,” suggested Howard.

One of the male satellites, who had thoughtlessly advanced toward the indicated chair in the center of the room, stepped back hastily. Algeria arranged herself in it with an effective pose. Her dark sleek head, hair cut in the fashion of an Elizabethan page-boy, was in sharp relief against her draperies. Her plump arms were beautifully white, her too-small hands exquisitely kept. She had the unreal animation of a stolid-bodied but wickedly intelligent doll.

“You may sit here by _me_, Pierre,” she commanded. Gouvain obeyed sheepishly. “I’m _so_ glad to get back to Sandwich Village,” she cooed, glancing at the tea-tray and then expectantly at her audience. Howard smiled and the three satellites giggled. “Let’s have some _magic_, dearestie.” Algeria smiled irresistibly. Her gaze was astonishingly direct, and yet somehow behind its naïveté she remained invitingly hidden.

Howard rose and ran into the kitchenette, returning with a bottle and some glasses. Em marveled at his submission.

“What kind of a voyage did you have?” inquired the girl satellite reverently, as Howard served the tea and wine.

“Rather _oceany_,” smiled Algeria, dimpling. Her throat was very white and thick. “I kept away from the dining-room, stayed in my _suite_, don’t you know. The passengers were really _quite_ terrible. They ate so _eatfully_. I just _couldn’t_ bear it!” Again she pealed silvery laughter in which the satellites dutifully joined.

“And Paris?” The girl again, ecstatically.

Algeria shrugged her heavy, incongruously voluptuous shoulders Frenchwise.

“It weaved around too much! You know Paris is so--_winey_. I’m _afraid_ I was a badix.”

“Recite one of your poems, darling, _please_ do,” continued the horse-faced girl humbly.

“Yes!” murmured the other satellites eagerly, “please do.”

Algeria smiled graciously, with a little grimace of elaborate gratification. She seemed to understand her own absurdity. Her air was of privileged outrageousness, innocently sophisticated.

“All right, peeties, s-h-a-l-l we?” Her ascending chromatic intonation of the word “shall” was indescribable. “Which one do you want?”

“Haf you one zat iss new?” Gouvain inquired apprehensively.

“Millions!” beamed Algeria, making a mental note against him. “Let me see. Oh! Here’s a little magic I wrote one night in _Venice_. We just _ran down_ there for a few days, to drink a little _beauty_, you know.” With her tiny smooth claw-like perfectly manicured hands she pushed back her bobbed hair, dyed with a little gray still showing at the roots. Throwing back her head on her short white neck, she produced from some mysterious part of her a dilapidated comb--a comb that should never be seen anywhere--and violently combed out her mane. Howard was embarrassed by this operation, but he justified it with the gallant deliberateness of all her sexual gestures, however trivial.

The satellites arranged themselves in attitudes of breathless attention as she began to half recite, half sing, her poem, her eyes fixed on space, her heavy body swaying a little to the rhythm.

_“Our Spanish Cæsar’s flotilla,
The Pope’s, and John’s of Austria,
We sailed the tideless sea to win
It from the curse of Keyr-ed-din._

_“The old Venetian Admiral
Was fierce commander of us all;
Andrea Doria’s masterie
Was hard o’er all the tideless sea.”_

“Unusual power of epithet!” ejaculated the lesser male satellite as Algeria paused raptly. She drew a brave breath and chanted on. Her voice was caressing, beautifully but rather meaninglessly modulated.

_“The fleet sailed out for Barbary:
My lady fair she sailed with me,
For love of me, it came to pass,
Aboard my royal galleasse._

_“Then fell the storm that reft us from
Our mates, and when the morn was come
Nor nef nor galley could we see:
’Twixt sky and wave alone sailed we.”_

“Eerie!” shivered the other male satellite.

_“We followed south to join anon
Our noble sister ships agone,
Until a day three sails were seen
Ahanging aft us late at e’en._

_“When near we saw with hatred cold
The cursed crescent flying bold,
With Allah’s name a hundred fold
Writ over it in words of gold.”_

Algeria paused again for her audience to recover.

“Marvelous!” sighed the girl. “It frightens me.”

_“The chase turned to a hell the ship:
I walked the middle plank with whip;
The naked Paynim rowers moaned
And strained her forward till she groaned.”_

“Terribly vivid picture,” observed the larger male satellite.

_“And then I swore a fearful oath:
‘God’s splendour,’ vowed I by my troth,
‘An we gain free I will glad part
With what is dearest to my heart!’_

_“And in the thwarts there knelt in prayer
My tender bride with golden hair:
‘Saint John and Holy Sepulchre?’
She prayed with whited lips in fear.”_

“It wrings my heart!” said the equine girl pitifully, as Algeria looked in her direction.

“I _knew_ you’d love that,” gurgled Algeria sweetly, intoning on with even higher unction.

Great heavens, will it ever end? groaned Genevieve silently.

_“And lo! in answer to her plea
We saw the land a league away,
And as we neared the island’s shore
From bastions rang the cannon’s roar._

_“A banner waved and for its boss
The Hospitallers’ eight armed cross:
The Corsairs’ brood then drew away
While dead within their galleys lay._

_“I turned from friends my love to see,
She turned from God and reached to me;
And then my heart it burgeoned out,
I caught her to me with a shout.”_

“Oh!” breathed the girl, her hand on her breast.

_“But I was dumb ere thanks I said,
The form I gathered up was dead;
Ashore I bore her tenderly:
She sleeps beside the tideless sea.”_

“Wonderful! Exquisite! Impossible beauty!” vowed the satellites in impassioned chorus.

Algeria’s eyes regally swept the excited group. Her pupils were exaggerated, her vermilion lips pouted. She was crudely voluptuous. Howard sometimes suffered acutely in witnessing Algeria’s lack of subtlety. Some months of absence, and his determination to conserve the value of Algeria’s admiration for his work had dimmed his recollection of her most blatant phase. He had not remembered that it was as bad as this. But his discomfort was interrupted when Algeria, emerging for a flash from the prepossession of her artificial personality, gave him a confidential glance of amusement in which she maliciously deprecated her audience. Aren’t they absurd to believe in me, she seemed to say. Or so, in relief to his vanity, he interpreted it.

“Well, peeties, they _are_ rather nice! We’re _doing_ it, aren’t we?” For an instant, as if drawing aside the curtain before a mystery, she flashed the others a piquant smile of seemingly frank and innocent pleasure in herself.

“Of all things! in this day and age!” Genevieve spoke almost inaudibly to Em.

“It has a certain go to it, don’t you think?” said Howard, turning to Genevieve. During the recital he had been studying Genevieve’s harmonious make-up with critical approval.

“Good restoration jingle,” she replied with elaborate carelessness.

Howard’s glance had not escaped Algeria.

“Won’t _you_ recite something, Miss Strang?”

“I don’t write,” returned Genevieve in her poised manner.

“What _do_ you do? You look so clever I’m _sure_ it must be something delightful.”

“Nothing,” said Genevieve calmly. She was thinking quickly, too. This woman is positively sinister, she decided.

“Just _live_?” smiled Algeria.

“That depends on where I am,” rejoined Genevieve a little crudely.

Algeria never let the moment turn cold. Ostentatiously forgetting to reply to Genevieve’s remark, she rose with a bird-sweep of arms and draperies.

“Come, dearesties! So _dreadful_ to live in New York again! We shall be _oh_, so tired when we come back from our parties tonight. But we’re not losing any of our _petals_, are we?” She lifted her brows in an arch caressing grimace. The satellites flocked to her like chicks. Gouvain smiled sadly at Em. “Bring me my cloak, Pierre darling,” Algeria ordered quickly, intercepting Gouvain’s look. She had the immediate impulse to separate him from the rest of the group. (Behold, my fellow-countrymen--and women--Pierre! Don’t you see why I want to save Howard?) “And Howard dear, _you_ must take me to Celia’s, people will be _waiting_.” Impartial proprietary pats and squeezes. A dramatic pause at the door before exit. “_Good_-by, sweetestkins!” She swooped down upon Em and kissed her destructively. “You _must_ come to see me every day.” A finger uplifted. “Now don’t _forget_!” Algeria turned at last to Genevieve. “Miss Strang!”

Genevieve bowed.

Algeria, banners streaming, smiling triumphantly, followed by her entire cortege, dissolved spectacularly through the doorway.

Em and Genevieve were alone.

4

Genevieve drew a long breath.

Em was thinking. Puzzled. Deeply resentful because Howard had preached Algeria all this time. What do I mean if this is his ideal? It’s too absurd! I can’t realize it. He never did mean anything to me. He couldn’t. That unbelievable woman! The thought of Les came back and her face cleared.

“Well?” said Genevieve, raising her eyebrows.

“Isn’t it funny?” Em smiled a little.

“If you’d take those Loie Fuller draperies away she’d look like a washerwoman.” Genevieve’s spoken comments were usually social.

Em laughed.

“You’re chronically disillusioned, Jen.”

“Yea, verily, I am a bitter female.”

Em’s eyes grew soft again.

“Tell me about Les.”

“He’s wasting himself on that girl,” declared Genevieve shortly. I must get Em out of this somehow. Genevieve was frankly Howard’s enemy--and now Algeria!

“I’m so sorry for Cicely,” replied Em earnestly.

“I’m sorry for _him_!” snapped Genevieve, “You’re treating him rottenly, Em.”

“How, Jen? What can I do?” Em wanted Genevieve to make her do what she herself wished.

“Do! You can act like a human being toward him. Just because you’ve broken off your affair there’s no reason why you should both behave like early Victorians.” Genevieve’s affectionate anxiety seemed to vent itself in reproof. I _must_ get Em away from these awful people! Something terrible will happen if I don’t. She tried to think only of Em. She did not acknowledge that Les came into her plan.

“I--I’d--love to--to be--” Em had not gone to Patchin Place because Les had not sought her. No. Because Cicely was there! But she felt that something would happen to let her see Les again. Les was hers. Of course their love relation was over--

“I’m going to have you two down to dinner,” announced Genevieve firmly.

“Oh, _Jen_, you darling!” Em rushed happily at her friend. “You sweet thing!” Tears were in Em’s eyes. She forgot that Howard had gone away in Algeria’s train.

“Well, I must be going.” Genevieve’s Anglo-Saxon imperturbability was strained. Arms about each other the two walked to the door. “I’ll let you know the time,” said Genevieve in a matter-of-fact tone.

“O-o-o-h! you _dear_!” Em kissed her again.

After Genevieve had gone Em in the dusk danced a pirouette around the cold, gray living-room.

5

Algeria was here! Algeria had been the nurse of Howard’s vanity. He had always been pathetically grateful for praise, but had received little as an etcher and none as an individual. He had long known, deep within himself, what Algeria was; but could not acknowledge it because she insisted that he was a great artist. Then, other people admired her--fools, of course, but--

Now that she was back, he found that his life with Em had cruelly rendered him more incapable than ever of accepting the old make-believe. But Em held no promise of future obeisance to his artistic achievement. Therefore he could not destroy Algeria--the symbol of his past. He also could not help studying Algeria with a new detachment.

Arriving late at Celia’s place Algeria, with Howard, Gouvain, and the three satellites in tow, paused dramatically as usual and, all streamers flying, sailed overpoweringly into the crowded room.

“Oh, _dear_!” she exclaimed with an appealing, frightened air and a demure arching of her rather lovely brows. “Why, this is a _great big_ party, isn’t it?”

Howard’s unaccountable irritation and shame returned. He had always accepted her kittenishness before. Transparent but pleasant--makes living easier--Now he thought: the woman has real taste, why the devil does she--He would not think!

During the party Algeria had a series of little confidential chats with each of her principal admirers. When she sank on the soft couch and snuggled down beside Carmen, Howard was near and could hear the conversation.

“Isn’t it _dear_ of little Celia to do all this for _me_? _See_ her over there! Isn’t it just _too_ sweet? It’s my _own_ little soul, you know!”

“Cel’a’s shome kid,” agreed Carmen tipsily. She had drunk far too much in honor of Algeria’s restoration to the group, but she honestly adored Celia.

Celia, curled up in an arm-chair, was hardly less inebriated and her short skirt was strikingly disarranged.

“Do you see its _cute_ little head?” continued Algeria in a cuddling voice, “and,” with a low, hushed tone, “its _adorable_ knee? Do tell me that you see its cute little _knee_? We can’t call _attention_ to it, you know. It might cause a moment of _embarrassment_, and then it would be covered up. Isn’t it just _too_ cute?”

Carmen nodded sapiently, a vacuous drunken smile on her good-natured face. Howard writhed.

“_Do_ recite one of your poems, darling,” begged the girl satellite.

Algeria recited. In the midst of the long, rhymed ballad, celebrating the loves of “The Brown Singer and the Gold Singer,” Howard slipped from the room.

He was confused. He could not disown the part Algeria had played in his life! How had he changed? Earlier in the evening his vanity had been tortured almost unendurably by the three satellites who, seizing a cue from Algeria, had raved stupidly over two or three of his poorer things which Celia had. Being ignored hurt him, but adulation from people he despised degraded him. He blamed Algeria for the crudeness of it. Algeria’s mistake lay in the complacency of her contempt for those unlike herself. Howard enjoyed her refusal to take life seriously, but his very appreciation of her desire to escape the banality of responsibility made it intolerable for him to accept any implied condescension toward himself. He would laugh with her, but in one thing he would not be laughed at--

Behind Em’s new attitude of sisterly toleration he felt Les and Genevieve. Em’s jealousy of Algeria would have been balm to him. But Em took delight in tormenting him--she punished him for Les’s sake, he told himself. Her superiority to Algeria helped to make him inexorable.

As he hurried down the steps to the street he ran into an acquaintance, a third-rate pianist--one of Algeria’s numerous outer circle. Algeria herself composed music!

“Hello, Story,” said the smirking musician. “Heard Algeria Westover’s back and holding forth here tonight.”

“Well,” replied Howard coldly.

“I came around to be amused,” smiled the other. “The old girl’s a scream, isn’t she?”

“_You’re_ a damned fool,” spat Howard, leaving his interlocutor breathless.

What’s the matter with me, Howard asked himself as he rushed down the street. Thinking himself detached from the illusions and dependencies of others he could not understand his unhappiness. I’m not working hard enough, he decided. He imagined he could do without the false sentimentality which disordered Em. Algeria at least was a decadent like himself. She belonged, with all her elaborate absurdities, to the select disillusioned. Bodily functions were as repulsive to her as they were to him.

Her poetry showed little or nothing of herself, beyond the desire to escape factual life which made it romantic. Algeria called herself pagan, but her mind was full of a mediæval terror of the flesh.

She had never achieved public expression as a painter, but she drew cleverly--caricatures of men and women in romantic sexual postures in which there was a leer of bestiality. There was real sincerity in these pictures. Her revolt from the actual was so sharp as to envelop everything physical in a romantic horror, and she herself was fascinated by this hideousness. All the sexual details of physiognomy were distorted to subjective representation.

Howard and Algeria shared this protest against themselves, a romanticism of pollution. This quality of outrage, of making all unclothing violent, and thereby lewd, terrified Howard as it applied to himself. He imagined himself stripped to Algeria’s imagination, and he was grotesque, like a fat clergyman in a bathtub. He had to preserve his alliance in cruelty.