The Light of the Star: A Novel

by Hamlin Garland

  Produced by David Yingling, Matt Whittaker, Bethanne M.Simms, David Garcia and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam at https://www.pgdp.net

  ************************************************************************ Transcriber's Note: Typo "gantlet" was replaced with "gauntlet" but ** all other spelling was retained as it appeared in the original text.************************************************************************

  "HE WAS A NOTICEABLY HANDSOME FIGURE AS HE SAT ALONE INTHE BOX"

  [_See p. 31_]

  THE

  LIGHT OF THE STAR

  A Novel

  BY

  HAMLIN GARLAND

  AUTHOR OF "HESPER"

  "THE CAPTAIN OF THE GRAY-HORSE TROOP"

  ETC. ETC.

  NEW YORK AND LONDON

  HARPER & BROTHERS

  PUBLISHERS:: MCMIV

  THE LIGHT OF THE STAR

  Published May, 1904.

  THE LIGHT OF THE STAR

  I

  After the appointment with Miss Merival reached him (through the hand ofher manager), young Douglass grew feverishly impatient of the long dayswhich lay between. Waiting became a species of heroism. Each morning hereread his manuscript and each evening found him at the theatre, partlyto while away the time, but mainly in order that he might catch someclew to the real woman behind the shining mask. His brain was filledwith the light of the star--her radiance dazzled him.

  By day he walked the streets, seeing her name on every bill-board,catching the glow of her subtle and changeful beauty in every window.She gazed out at him from brows weary with splendid barbaric jewels, hereyes bitter and disdainful, and hopelessly sad. She smiled at him inframework of blue and ermine and pearls--the bedecked, heartlesscoquette of the pleasure-seeking world. She stood in the shadow of graywalls, a grating over her head, with deep, soulful, girlish eyes liftedin piteous appeal; and in each of these characters an unfathomed depthremained to vex and to allure him.

  Magnified by these reflections on the walls, haloed by the teemingpraise and censure of the press, she seemed to dominate the entire cityas she had come to absorb the best of his own life. What her privatecharacter really was no one seemed to know, in spite of the specialarticles and interviews with her managers which fed the almost universaladulation of her dark and changeful face, her savage and sovereignbeauty. There was insolence in her tread, and mad allurement in therounded beauty of her powerful white arm--and at his weakest the youngplaywright admitted that all else concerning her was of no account.

  At the same time he insisted that he was not involved with thewoman--only with the actress. "I am not a lover--I am a playwright,eager to have my heroine adequately portrayed," he contended withhimself in the solitude of his room, high in one of the great apartmentbuildings of the middle city. Nevertheless, the tremor in his nervescaused him thought.

  Her voice. Yes, that, too, was mysterious. Whence came that undertonelike the moan of a weary wastrel tortured with dreams of idyllicinnocence long lost? Why did her utterance, like her glorious face,always suggest some inner, darker meaning? There were times when sheseemed old--old as vice and cruelty, hoarse with complaints, withcurses, and then again her lips were childishly sweet, and her voicecarried only the wistful accents of adolescence or the melody of girlishawe.

  On the night before his appointment she played _The Baroness Telka_, alurid, lustful, remorseless woman--a creature with a vampire's heart andthe glamour of Helen of Troy--a woman whose cheeks were still round andsmooth, but whose eyes were alight with the flame of insanity--afrightful, hungry, soulless wretch. And as he sat at the play andwatched that glittering, inexplicable woman, and thought of her roles,Douglass asked himself: "How will she meet me to-morrow? What will bethe light in her eyes when she turns them upon me? Will she meet mealone--haughty, weary with praise, or will she be surrounded by thosewho bow to her as to a queen?" This latter thing he feared.

  He had not been without experience with women--even with actresses; butno woman he had ever met had appealed to his imagination beyond thefirst meeting. Would it be so with Helen Merival? He had loved twice inhis life, but not well enough to say so to either of his sweethearts.Around Myra's name clung the perfume and moonlight of summer evenings inthe far-off mid-continent village where he was born, while Violetrecalled the music, the comfort, and the security of a beautiful Easternhome. Neither of these sweet and lovely girls had won his heartcompletely. How was it that this woman of the blazoning bill-boards hadalready put more of passion into his heart than they of the pure andsheltered life?

  He did not deceive himself. It was because Helen could not be understoodat a glance. She appealed to his imagination as some strange bird--alienvoyager--fled from distant islands in dim, purple seas. She typed thedreams of adventuring youth seeking the princesses of other and moreromantic lands.

  At times he shuddered with a fear that some hidden decay of HelenMerival's own soul enabled her to so horrify her audience with thesedesolating roles, and when the curtain fell on _The Baroness_, he wasresolved to put aside the chance of meeting the actress. Was it worthwhile to be made ashamed and bitter? She might stand revealed as acoarse and selfish courtesan--a worn and haggard enchantress whosefailing life blazed back to youth only when on the stage. Why bedisenchanted? But in the end he rose above this boyish doubt. "What doesit matter whether she be true or false? She has genius, and genius Ineed for my play--genius and power," and in the delusion he rested.

  He climbed to his den in the tower as physically wearied as oneexhausted with running a race, and fell asleep with his eyelidsfluttering in a feverish dream.

  The hour of his appointment with her fell upon Sunday, and as he walkedup the street towards her hotel the bells in a church on a side streetwere ringing, and their chimes filled his mind with memories of thesmall town from which he came. How peaceful and sweet the life ofWoodstock seemed now. The little meeting-house, whose shingled spirestill pointed at the stars, would always be sweet with the memory ofMyra Thurber, whose timid clasp upon his arm troubled him then andpained him now. He had so little to give in return for herdevotion--therefore he had given nothing. He had said good-bye almostharshly--his ambition hardening his heart to her appeal.

  Around him, in his dream of those far-off days, moved other agileforms--young lovers like Myra and himself, their feet creaking on theglittering snow. They stepped slowly, though the bells called andcalled. The moonlight was not more clear and untouched of baleful firethan Myra's sweet eyes looking up at him, and now he was walking the wetpavement of the great metropolis, with the clang and grind of cars allabout him, on his way to meet a woman whose life was spent in simulatingacts as destructive as Myra's had been serene and trustful. At themoment he saw his own life as a thread in some mysterious drama.

  "To what does it lead?" he asked, as he drew under the overhangingportal of the great hotel where the star made her home. It was to theman of the West a splendid place. Its builders had been lavish of highlycolored marbles and mosaics, spendthrift of light and gilding; on everyside shone the signs and seals of predatory wealth. Its walls were likecostly confectionery, its ornaments insolent, its waste criminal. Everydecorative feature was hot, restless, irreverent, and cruel, quite thesort of avenue one might expect to find in his walk towards theglittering woman of the false and ribald drama.

  "She chose her abode with instinctive bad taste," he said, bitterly; andagain his weakness, his folly turned him cold; for with all his physicalpowers he was shy to the point of fear.

  He made a sober and singular spot in the blaze of the rotunda. So sombrewas his look, so intent his gaze. Youths in high hats and shiningshirt-fronts stood in groups conversing loudly, and in the resplendentdin
ing-hall bediamonded women and their sleek-haired, heavy-jewelledpartners were eating leisurely, attended by swarms of waiters so eagerthey trod upon one another's feet.

  The clerk eyed him in impassible silence as he took out his worncard-case, saying: "Please send my card to Miss Merival."

  "Miss Merival is not receiving any one this evening," the clerkanswered, with a tone which was like the slap of a wet glove in theface.

  Douglass faced him with a look which made him reflect. "You will let herbe the judge of that," he said, and his tone was that of one accustomedto be obeyed.

  The little man bowed. "Oh, certainly, Mr. Douglass, but as she leftorders--"

  When the boy with his card had disappeared into the candy-coloreddistances, the playwright found himself again studying the face of hisincomprehensible sorceress, who looked down upon him even at that momentfrom a bulletin-board on the hotel wall, Oriental, savage, andsullen--sad, too, as though alone in her solitary splendor. "She can'tbe all of her parts--which one of them will I find as I enter her room?"he asked himself for the hundredth time.

  "Miss Merival will see Mr. Douglass," said the bell-boy. "This way,sir."

  As he stepped into the elevator the young man's face grew stern and hislips straightened out into a grim line. It was absurd to think he shouldbe so deeply moved by any woman alive, he who prided himself on hisself-possession.

  Down a long hall on the tenth floor the boy led him, and tapped at adoor, which was opened after a pause by a quiet woman who greeted himwith outstretched hand, kindly cordial.

  "How do you do, Mr. Douglass? It is very good of you to come," she said,with the simplest inflection.

  "This must be an elder sister," he thought, and followed her into alarge sitting-room, where a gray-haired woman and a young man weresipping after-dinner coffee.

  "Mother, this is Mr. Douglass, the author of _The Modern Stage_, thelittle book of essays we liked so well." The elderly lady greeted himcordially, but with a timid air. "And this is my brother Hugh," theyoung man gave Douglass's hand a firm and cordial grip.

  "Sit down, please--not there--over here, where the light will fall onyou. I want to see how you look," she added, in smiling candor; and withthat smile he recognized in his hostess the great actress.

  He was fairly dazed, and for the moment entirely wordless. From the verymoment the door had opened to him the "glittering woman" had beenreceding into remote and ever remoter distances, for the Helen Merivalbefore him was as simple, candid, and cordial as his own sister. Hervoice had the home inflection; she displayed neither paint nor powder;her hair was plainly brushed--beautiful hair it was, too--and her dresswas lovely and in quiet taste.

  Her face seemed plain at first, just as her stature seemed small. Shewas dark, but not so dark as she appeared on the stage, and her face wasthinner, a little careworn, it seemed to him; and her eyes--"thoseleering, wicked eyes"--were large and deep and soft. Her figure wasfirm, compact, womanly, and modest in every line. No wife could haveseemed more of the home than this famous actress who faced him withhands folded in her lap.

  He was stupefied. Suddenly he perceived the injustice and the crassfolly of his estimate of her character, and with this perception came abroader and deeper realization of her greatness as an actress. Her realself now became more complex than his wildest imagined ideal of her.That this sweet and reflective girl should be the actress was asdifficult to understand as that _The Baroness_ should be at heart a goodwoman. For five minutes he hardly heard what she said, so busy was hismind readjusting itself to this abrupt displacement of values. Withnoiseless suddenness all the lurid light which the advertiser hadthrown around the star died away. The faces which mocked and mourned,the clutching hands, the lines of barbaric ornaments, the golden gobletsof debauchery, the jewelled daggers, the poison phials--all thoseaccessories, designed to produce the siren of the posters, faded out,and he found himself face to face with a human being like himself, athoughtful, self-contained, and rather serious American girl oftwenty-six or twenty-eight years of age.

  Not merely this, but her attitude towards him was that of a pupil. Shelifted eyes to him as to one occupying an intellectual height. She beganto tell him how much she enjoyed his little book on the drama, which afriend had recommended to her, but as soon as he had fairly recoveredhimself he led her away from his own work. "I am supposed to be anarchitect," he explained. "I write of the stage because I love it--andbecause I am a failure in my profession. My book is a very slight andunambitious attempt."

  "But you know the stage and its principles," she insisted; "and yourview of the future is an inspiration to those of us who wish to do goodwork. Your letter was very helpful to me, for I am deeply discouragedjust now. I am disgusted with the drama in which I work. I am weary ofthese unwholesome parts. You are quite right, I shall never do my bestwork so long as I am forced to assume such uncongenial roles. They areall false, every one of them. They are good acting roles, as actinggoes; but I want plays that I can live as well as act. But my managertells me that the public will not have me in anything else. Do you thinkthey would? Is he right?" She ended in appeal.

  "I think the public will take you at your best in anything you do," hereplied, with grave gallantry. "I don't know that managers areomniscient. They are only men like the rest of us."

  She smiled. "That is high treason; but I'm very much inclined to believeit is true. I am willing to concede that a theatre must be made to pay,but I am not content to think that this splendid art is always to bemeasured by the number of dollars which fall into the box-office. TakeWestervelt as a type. What ideals has he? None whatever, save to find aplay that will run forever and advertise itself."

  She had dreams, too, it seemed. She glowed with her plans, and as shetimidly presented them Douglass perceived that the woman was entirelyunconscious of the false glamour, the whirling light and tumult, whichoutsiders connected with her name. At the centre of the illumination shesat looking out upon the glorified bill-boards, the gay shop windows,the crowded auditoriums, a wholesome, kindly, intelligent woman, subjectto moods of discouragement like himself, unwilling to be a slave to amoney-grubber. Something in his face encouraged the story of herstruggles. She passed to her personal history while he listened as oneenthralled.

  The actress fled, and the woman drew near. She looked into the man'seyes frankly, unshrinkingly, with humor, with appeal. She leaned towardshim, and her face grew exquisitely tender and beautiful. "Oh, it was astruggle! Mother kept boarders in order that Hugh and I might go toschool--didn't you, dear old muz?" She laid her hand on her mother'sknee, and the mother clasped it. "Father's health grew worse and worse,and at last he died, and then I had to leave school to help earn ourliving. I began to read for entertainments of various sorts. Father wasa Grand Army man, and the posts took an interest in my reading. I reallyearned a thousand dollars the second year. I doubled that the next year,and considered myself a great public success." She smiled. "Mother, mayI let Mr. Douglass see how I looked then?"

  The mother nodded consent, and the great actress, after a few moments'search, returned with a package of circulars, each bearing a piquant,girlish face.

  "There," she said, as she handed them to Douglass, "I felt the fullecstasy of power when that picture was taken. In this I wore a new gownand a new hat, and I was earning fifty dollars at each reading. Mysuccess fairly bewildered me; but oh, wasn't it glorious! I took motherout of a tenement and put her in a lovely little home. I sent Hugh tocollege. I refurnished the house. I bought pictures and rugs, for youknow I continued to earn over two thousand a year. And what fun we hadin spending all that money!"

  "But how did you reach the stage?" he asked.

  She laughed. "By way of 'the Kerosene circuit,' if you know what thatmeans."

  "I've heard the phrase," he answered; "it corresponds to the old-time'barn-storming,' doesn't it?"

  "It does."

  Hugh interposed. "I wouldn't go into that, sis."

  "Why not? It's great fun--now
. I used to think it pretty tragicsometimes. Yes, I was nineteen when I went on the New England ruralcircuit--to give it a better name. Oh, I've been through all the steps!As soon as I felt a little secure about mother, I ventured to New Yorkin answer to advertisements in _The Reflector_, and went out 'on theroad' at 'fifteen per.'" These slang phrases seemed humorous as theycame from her smiling lips, but Douglass knew some little part of thetoil and discomfort they stood for.

  Her eyes danced with fun. "I played _The Lady of Lyons_ in a 'kitchenset,' and the death-scene in _East Lynne_ before a 'wood drop.' And mycostumes were something marvellous, weren't they, mother? Well, thislasted two seasons--summer seasons; while I continued to read in winterin order to indulge my passion for the stage in summer and early autumn.Then I secured a small part in a real company, and at a salary thatpermitted me to send some money home. I knocked about the country thisway two seasons more--that makes me twenty-two. I knew the office ofevery manager in New York by this time, but had been able to reach anaudience with but one or two. They were kind enough, but failed to 'seeanything' in me, as the phrase goes; and I was quite disheartened. Oh,'the Rialto'!" Her face clouded and her voice softened. "It is abrilliant and amusing place to the successful, but to the girl who walksit seeking a theatrical engagement it is a heartless and cruel place.You can see them there to-day--girls eager and earnest and ready to workhard and conscientiously--haunting the agencies and the anterooms of themanagers just as I did in those days--only five years ago."

  "It seems incredible," exclaimed Douglass. "I thought you came here froma London success."

  "So I did, and that is the miraculous chapter of my story. I went toLondon with Farnum--with only a little part--but McLennan saw me andliked my work, and asked me to take the American adventuress in his newplay. And then--my fortune was made. The play was only a partialsuccess, but my own position was established. I continued to play thegay and evil-minded French and Russian woman of the English stage till Iwas tired of them. Then I tried _Joan of Arc_ and _Charlotte Corday_.The public forced me back to _The Baroness Telka_, and to wealth andgreat fame; and then I read your little book, which seemed directedstraight to me, and I asked Hugh to write you--now you have the 'storyof me life.' I have had no struggle since--only hard work and greatacclaim." She faced her mother with a proud smile. Then her facedarkened. "But--there is always a but--I want New York to know me insome better way. I'm tired of these women with cigarettes and spangleddinner-gowns."

  She laid her hand again on her mother's knee, and the gentle old fingersclosed around the firm, smooth wrist.

  "I've told mother that I will cut these roles out. We are at last in aposition to do as we please. I am now waiting for something worth whileto come to me. That is my present situation, Mr. Douglass. I don't knowwhy I've been so frank. Now let me hear your play."

  He flushed a little. "To tell the truth, I find it rather hard to begin.I feel as though I were re-enacting a worn-out scene in some way. Everyother man in the car writes plays nowadays and torments his friends byreading to them, which, I admit, is an abominable practice. However, asI came here for that express purpose, I will at least outline myscenario."

  "Didn't you bring the play itself?"

  "Yes; but, really, I hesitate. It may bore you to death."

  "You could not write a play that would bore me--I am sure of that."

  "Very well," he soberly answered, and drew forth his manuscript. As ifupon signal, the mother and her son rose to withdraw. "You are entirelyjustified," said Douglass, with some humor. "I quite understand yourfeelings."

  "We should like very much to hear it, but--"

  "No excuses, I beg of you. I wonder at Miss Merival's hardihood. I amquite sure she will live to repent her temerity."

  In this spirit of banter the playwright and the star were left alonewith the manuscript of the play. As he read on, Douglass was carried outof his own impassivity by the changes in the face before him. It becameonce more elusive, duskily mysterious in its lines. A reflective shadowdarkened the glorious eyes, veiled by drooping lids. Without knowing it,the actress took on from moment to moment the heart-trials of the womanof the play. In a subconscious way even as he read, Douglass analyzedand understood her power. Hers was a soul of swift and subtle sympathy.A word, a mere inflection, was sufficient to set in motion the mostcomplicate and obscure conceptions in her brain, permitting her tocomprehend with equal clarity the Egyptian queen of pleasure and theaustere devotee to whom joy is a snare. From time to time she utteredlittle exclamations of pleasure, and at the end of each act motioned himto proceed, as if eager to get a unified impression.

  It was after eleven o'clock when he threw down the manuscript, and,white with emotion, awaited her verdict. She was tense with the strain,and her lashes were wet with tears, but her eyes were bright and hermind alert. She had already entered upon a new part, having been sweptup into a region of resolution as far away from the pleasant hostess asfrom the heartless adventuress whose garments she had worn but the nightbefore. With hands clasped between her knees, and shoulders laxlydrooping, she brooded on the sorrows of his mimic world.

  "I will do your play," she said at last. "I will do it because I believein its method and because I think it worthy of my highest powers."

  The blood rushed to the playwright's throat and a smarting heat dimmedhis eyes. He spoke with difficulty. "I thank you," he said, hoarsely."It is more than I expected; and now that you have promised to do it, Ifeel you ought not to take the risk." He could say no more, overcome bythe cordial emphasis of her decision.

  "There is a risk, I will be frank with you; but your play is worth it. Ihave not been so powerfully moved in years. You have thrilled me. ReallyI cannot tell you how deeply your theme has sunk into my heart. You havethe Northern conscience--so have I; that is why I rebel at being merelythe plaything of a careless public. Yes, I will do your play. It is awork of genius. I hope you wrote it in a garret. It's the kind of thingto come from a diet of black bread and water."

  He smiled. "I live in a sort of garret, and my meals are frequentlybeans and brown bread. I hope that will do."

  "I am glad the bread is at least brown.... But you are tired. Leave themanuscript with me." He rose and she moved towards him with a gestureof confidence which made words impossible to him. "When we meet again Iwant you to tell me something of yourself.... Good-night. You will hearfrom me soon." She was regal as she said this--regal in her own properperson, and he went away rapt with wonder and admiration of the realHelen Merival as she now stood revealed to him.

  "She is greater than my dreams of her," he said, in a sort of rapture ashe walked the street. "She is greater than she herself can know; for hergenius is of the subtle, unspeakable deeps--below her own consciousness,beyond her own analysis. How much greater her art seems, now that I haveseen her. It is marvellous! She will do my play, and she willsucceed--her power as an actress would carry it to a success if it werea bad play, which it is not. My day has dawned at last."

  * * * * *

  Helen went to bed that night with a consciousness that something new andpowerful had come into her life. Not merely the play and herdetermination to do it moved her--the man himself profoundly impressedher. His seriousness, his decision and directness of utterance, and theidealism which shone from his rugged, boyish face remained with her tothe verge of sleep. He was very handsome, and his voice singularlybeautiful, but his power to charm lay over and beyond these. His sincereeyes, his freedom from flippant slang, these impressed her with a senseof his reliability, his moral worth.

  "He is stern and harsh, but he is fine," she said to her mother nextmorning, "and his play is very strong. I am going to do it. You willlike the part of _Lillian_. It has the Scotch sense of moralresponsibility in it."