Kitabı oku: «Frank Merriwell's New Comedian: or, The Rise of a Star», sayfa 8
CHAPTER XIV. – FRANK’S NEW COMEDIAN
The day came for the great dress rehearsal of “True Blue,” to which the theatrical people of Denver, the newspaper men, and a great number of prominent people had been invited.
Frank had determined on this course at great expense, but he believed he would be repaid for the outlay.
His chief object was to secure good newspaper notices and recommendations from the theater managers in the city.
It was to be an afternoon performance, so that it would not interfere with any of the regular theatrical attractions to play in town that night.
Early in the day Hodge advised Frank to keep a sharp watch on Burns.
“Don’t let him have any money, Merry. He fancies he will have to go through a terrible ordeal this afternoon, and he wishes to brace up for it. If he gets all he wants to drink, he will be loaded to the muzzle when the time comes to play.”
Frank feared this, and so, when Burns appealed to him for money, he refused the old man, telling him he could have some after the performance.
Then Merry set Gallup to watch the tragedian.
Frank was at work in the theater, where various members of the company were practicing specialties, and the stage hands were arranging everything so that there would be no hitch about the performance.
Within thirty minutes after Gallup was set to watch the old actor, he came to Frank in a hurry, saying:
“If you want to keep Mr. Burns sober, I advise yeou to come with me an’ git him aout of a grog shop daown the street, Merry.”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Frank. “Why, he hasn’t the money to buy liquor, even if he has gone into a saloon.”
“He won’t hev to buy it, I guess.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I saw two men pick him up an’ take him inter the gin mill. They axed him would he come in an’ have somethin’ with them.”
“Did he know them?”
“Didn’t seem ter. He looked kainder s’prised, but he accepted the invite in a hurry.”
“Then it is time that we looked after him,” nodded Merry, grimly. “Show me where he has gone, Ephraim.”
Hodge followed them. They left the theater and hurried along the street to a saloon.
“He went in here,” said Ephraim.
Without a word, Frank entered.
The moment Merry was within the place he saw Burns standing near the bar, while a crowd had gathered around him. The old man had placed his hat on the bar, tossed back his long, black hair, which was streaked with gray, struck a pose, and was just beginning to declaim from Shakespeare.
“Go it, old chap!” cried a half-intoxicated man. “We’ll put up the red eye for you as long as you will spout.”
The old man’s voice rang out clear and strong. His pronunciation was perfect, and his enunciation clear and distinct. Involuntarily Merry paused a moment to listen. At that moment it came to Frank that Burns might, beyond a doubt, have been an actor of no small merit had he eschewed drink and followed his ambition with unswerving purpose. For the first time Merry fully appreciated the outraged feelings of the old fellow who was compelled to burlesque the tragedian on the stage.
Frank strode forward into the crowd, followed by his friends.
“Burns,” he said, quietly, interrupting the old man, “I want you to come with me.”
The aged actor stopped speaking, all the dignity seemed to melt from him in a moment, and he reached for his hat, murmuring:
“I merely came in for one small bracer. I needed it, and the gentlemen were good enough to invite me.”
“Here!” coarsely cried a man. “What’s this mean? Who’s this that’s comin’ here to spoil our fun?”
“Throw the feller out!” cried another.
Growls of anger came from the others gathered about, and they crowded nearer.
“Look out for trouble!” whispered Hodge, in Frank’s ear.
“Get out of here,” ordered the first speaker, confronting Merry. “We’re bein’ entertained.”
“I beg your pardon – gentlemen,” said Merry, smoothly, hesitating slightly before the final word. “There are reasons why I come here to take Mr. Burns with me. I am sorry to spoil your entertainment, but it is necessary.”
“Is the old fellow bound out to you?” sneeringly, asked one. “Do you own him?”
“No man owns me!” cried the tragedian, drawing himself up and staring round. “I am my own master.”
“I’ll bet you don’t dare take another drink,” said the man, quickly thrusting a brimming glass of whisky toward Burns. “You’re afraid of the young gent.”
“I’m afraid of nobody,” declared Burns, eagerly reaching for the glass. “I have drunk all I could get, and I always shall, for all of anybody.”
“That’s the talk!”
“Down with it!”
“Take your medicine!”
“You’re the boy!”
The crowd shouted its approval.
Burns lifted the glass.
Frank’s hand fell gently on his arm.
“Mr. Burns,” he said, swiftly, “I ask you as a particular favor not to drink that liquor. I ask you as a gentleman not to do it.”
Merry knew how to appeal to the old man in a manner that would touch the right spot. Burns looked straight into Frank’s eyes an instant, and then he placed the glass on the bar.
“If you ask me that way,” he said, “ten thousand fiends cannot force me to touch the stuff!”
There was a groan from the crowd.
“The old duffer caves!” sneered one man. “He hasn’t any backbone.”
“Oh, say!” sibilated Hodge, in Merry’s ear; “get him out of here in a hurry! I can’t stand much of this! I feel like thumping a few of these ruffians.”
“Steady!” cautioned Frank. “We do not want to get into a barroom brawl if we can avoid it.”
“They’re a purty darn tough-lookin’ craowd,” muttered Ephraim.
“Why wouldn’t it be a purty good thing fer ther young chaps all ter take a drink?” suggested somebody.
“That’s right!” cried the leader. “I’ll stand for them all, and the actor shall drink with them.”
“Don’t let them git out, gents, till they’ve taken their bitters.”
The rough men hemmed them in.
“I fear you are in an unfortunate predicament,” said Burns. “You will have to drink with them.”
“I never drink,” said Merry, quietly.
“Yer can’t refuse here,” declared the man who had offered to buy the drinks. “It’s a mortal insult ter refuse ter drink hyar.”
“I never took a drink in my life, gentlemen,” said Merriwell, speaking calmly, and distinctly, “and I shall not begin now. You will have to excuse me.”
He started to force his way through the crowd. A hand reached out to clutch him, and he wheeled like a flash toward the man, at whom he pointed squarely, crying:
“Take off that false beard! If you are a man, show your face! You are in disguise! I believe you are a criminal who does not dare show his face!”
His ringing words drew the attention of the crowd to the man whom he accused.
Merry improved the opportunity and hurried his friends and Burns toward the door. Before the gang was aware of it, they were out of the saloon, and Frank breathed his relief.
Not till they had reached the theater did a thought come to Frank that made him regret his hasty departure from the saloon.
“Heavens!” he exclaimed. “I believe the man who wore the false beard was the same one who entered my room at the hotel by means of the rope!”
He dashed back to the saloon, followed by Hodge and Gallup; but when he reached the place nearly all the crowd had left, the man he sought having departed with the others.
Frank was disappointed. He learned at the saloon that the accused man had not removed the beard, but had sneaked out in a hurry after Frank was gone.
Returning to the theater, Merry was informed that Burns was behaving strangely.
“He seems to be doped,” declared Hodge. “I think he has been drugged.”
Burns was in a dressing room, and Havener was working to keep the man awake, although the old actor was begging to be allowed to sleep.
As soon as Frank saw him he dispatched one of the supers for a physician.
The doctor came and gave Burns a powerful emetic, following that with a dose of medicine that seemed to brace the man up. Thus Burns was pulled into shape for the afternoon performance, although Frank realized that he had very nearly wrecked everything.
Burns remained in the theater, and lunch was brought him there.
“Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “I will surprise you by the manner in which I’ll play my part this afternoon. It shall be burlesque of a kind that’ll satisfy you.”
The performance was to begin at two o’clock. Some time before that people began to arrive, and they came fast. At two o’clock there were nearly five hundred persons in the auditorium.
The company was all made up and waiting behind the scenes.
Cassie Lee started to find Frank to ask him how he liked her make-up. In a corner behind the scenes she saw a man stopping near a mass of piled-up scenery. Something about the man’s appearance and his actions attracted her attention. She saw him pick up a can and pour some of the contents on the scenery. Then he crouched down there, taking a match safe from his pocket.
In a moment it dawned on Cassie that the fellow was up to deviltry. He had saturated the scenery with oil, and he was about to set it on fire!
Cassie screamed, and Frank Merriwell, who was near at hand, heard her. He came bounding to the spot, just as the startled man lighted his match.
“Quick, Frank!” cried Cassie. “He’s setting the scenery afire!”
Frank saw the fellow and leaped at him. The scenery flared up where the match had touched it. Then the fire bug turned to run.
Merriwell was on him, had him, hurled him down.
“No, you don’t, you dog!” grated Frank. “You shall pay for this dastardly trick!”
Cassie, with rare presence of mind, caught up a rug, which happened to be near, and beat out the fire before it had gained much headway.
A terrible struggle was going on between Frank and the man he had captured. The fellow was fighting with all his strength to hurry off and escape.
“No, you don’t!” came through Merriwell’s teeth. “I know you! You are the chap who entered my room! You it was who attempted to drug Burns so that this performance would be ruined! And now you have made a fatal mistake by attempting to fire the theater. I have you, and I shall hold you. You will be safely lodged behind prison bars for this trick.”
“Curse you!” panted the man.
“That does not hurt me,” said Merry. “Now, be quiet.”
He pinned the fellow to the floor and held him till others came up. Then the man’s hands were tied.
“Now, we’ll have a look at him,” said Merry, rolling the captive over on his back and pulling the old hat from his head.
Then he gave a cry of amazement, staggering back.
Hodge was there, and he was no less astounded.
Gallup was speechless with astonishment and incredulity.
“The dead alive!” cried Frank.
The man he had captured was the one he believed beneath the quicksands of Big Sandy River, Leslie Lawrence!
“I’m not dead yet!” grated Lawrence. “Fowler went down in the quicksands, but I managed to float away. I hid under the river’s bank, and there I stayed, like a hunted wolf, till you gave up looking for me. I swore to settle the score with you, but – ”
“You tried hard enough. You were the one who entered my room at the hotel.”
“Was I? Prove it.”
“I don’t have to. The job you tried to do here is enough. That will put you safely away. Somebody call an officer.”
An officer was called, and Lawrence was taken away.
The audience in front had heard some of the commotion behind the scenes and had grown rather restless, but they were soon calmed. An orchestra was on hand to play, and everything was carried out as if it had been a regular performance.
The first act went off well, and it received mild applause. The second act seemed to take full better, but still, the audience had not been aroused to any great show of enthusiasm.
Then came the third act. The first surprise was Burns. He literally convulsed the audience by the manner in which he burlesqued the Shakespearian tragedian. He astonished Frank, for Merry had not dreamed the old actor could be so intensely funny. Even Hodge was seen to smile once!
When Burns came off after doing an exceptionally clever piece of work, which caused the audience to applaud most heartily, Frank met him and grasped his hand, saying:
“My dear Mr. Burns, you have made the comedy hit of the piece! Your salary shall be fifty dollars a week, instead of forty.”
But William Shakespeare Burns burst into tears, sobbing brokenly:
“The comedy hit of the piece! And I have broken my own heart!”
It was impossible to cheer him up.
The boat race followed swiftly, and it wrought the audience up to a high pitch of enthusiasm and excitement. When the curtain came down, there was a perfect shout of applause, such as an enthusiastic Western audience alone can give.
“Frank Merriwell! Frank Merriwell!” was the cry that went up from all parts of the house.
Frank was obliged to come before the curtain and make a speech, which he did gracefully and modestly. When he was behind the curtain again, Havener had him by the hand, saying:
“You will get some rousing press notices to-morrow, Merriwell! This play will be the hit of your life!”
A manager of one of the local theaters came behind the scenes and offered Frank three thousand dollars for the piece. When Frank declined, the man promptly made it five thousand, but even that sum was not accepted.
Then came the fourth act, in which Burns again appeared as the burlesque tragedian. In this he was to repeat a parody on Hamlet’s soliloquy, but, apparently, before he was aware of it, he began to give the soliloquy itself.
In a moment the man had flung off the air of the clown. He straightened to his full height, his eyes gleamed with a strange fire, his chest heaved, and his voice sounded clear as the ring of steel. He electrified every person who heard him. With all the dramatic fire of a Booth, he swung into the soliloquy, and a hush fell over the audience. He held them spellbound, he swayed them at his will, he thrilled them as never had they been thrilled. At that moment William Shakespeare Burns was the tragedian sublime, and it is probable that he reached such heights as he had never before attained.
He finished. It was over, and then, realizing what he had done, he tottered off the stage.
Then the audience applauded long and loud, trying to call him back again; but behind the scenes he had fallen into Frank Merriwell’s arms, faintly murmuring:
“It is finished!”
Frank bore the man to a dressing room. The play went on to the end without a break, but it was not necessary for Burns to enter again.
When the curtain fell on the final act, Havener came hurrying to Merry:
“Burns wants to see you in the dressing room,” he said. “You had better come at once.”
Frank went there. The moment he saw the old actor, who was reclining on some rugs, his face ashen, his eyes looking dim and sunken still deeper into his head, Frank said:
“Somebody go for a doctor at once!”
He knelt beside the man, and the old actor murmured:
“It is useless to go for a doctor. I heard you tell them, but it is – no use. I told you – my heart – was broken. I spoke the – truth. It broke my heart when I – had to – burlesque – ”
His words died out in his throat.
“He’s going!” somebody whispered, for the company was gathered around.
There was a brief silence, and then the old man seemed to draw himself up with pride, as they had seen him do in life.
“Yes, sir,” he said, distinctly, “my name is Burns – William Shakespeare Burns – tragedian – at liberty.”
The old eyes closed, a faint sigh escaped his bloodless lips, and the old actor was “at liberty.”
CHAPTER XV. – A NEWSPAPER NOTICE
“Yesterday afternoon, through the courtesy of Manager Frank Merriwell, an invited audience of at least five hundred persons witnessed the first performance of Mr. Merriwell’s revised and rewritten play at the Orpheum Theater, and the verdict of that audience, which represented the highest and most cultured element of Denver society, was that the sprightly, sensational, four-act comedy drama was a success in every way. The play, which is now named ‘True Blue,’ was originally christened ‘For Old Eli,’ and, after a single performance, Mr. Merriwell withdrew it for the purpose of rewriting it, correcting certain faults he had discovered, and strengthening one or two weak points. As he wrote the piece, he was able to do this work of reconstruction quickly and thoroughly, and the result is a play of which he, as author, manager and star performer, may well be proud. The following is the cast:
DICK TRUEHEART FRANK MERRIWELL
Barry Hattleman Douglas Dunton
Spruce Downing Rufus Small
Crack Hyerman Bartley Hodge
Reuben Grass Ephraim Gallup
Manny Sizzwell William Wynne
Prof. Gash Roscoe Havener
Edwin Treadwell William Shakespeare Burns
Carius Dubad Granville Garland
Spike Dubad Lester Vance
Millie Blossom Miss Cassie Lee
Inez Dalton Miss Stella Stanley
Nancy Noodle Miss Agnes Kirk
“College life is the principal theme of ‘True Blue,’ and Mr. Merriwell, having studied at Yale, is quite capable of catching the air and spirit of Old Eli, and reproducing it on the stage. This he has done with a deftness and fidelity that makes the play remarkable in its class, or, possibly with greater accuracy, lifts it out of its class, for, up to the production of this piece, all college plays have been feeble attempts to catch the spirit of the life they represent, or have descended into the realm of farce or burlesque.
“While the author of ‘True Blue’ has written a play to suit the popular fancy, he has not considered it necessary to write down to the general public, and, for all of the college slang, which of a necessity is used by several of the characters, there is nothing offensive in the entire piece – nothing to shock the sensibilties of the most refined. The comedy in places is a trifle boisterous, but that was to be expected, and it does not descend to mere buffoonery. It is the kind of comedy at which the spectator must laugh, even though he may resolve that he will not, and, when it is all over, he feels better for his laughter, instead of feeling foolish, as he does in many cases after witnessing other ‘popular plays.’
“The pathos strikes the right chord, and the strongest situations and climaxes are stirring enough to thrill the most sluggish blood. In some respects the story of the play is rather conventional, but it is handled in a manner that makes it seem almost new. Through the four acts Dick Trueheart, the hero, is pursued by his enemies, Carius Dubad, and his, worthy son, Spike, and on various occasions they succeed in making things extremely unpleasant for the popular young athlete.
“Through two acts the villains pursue the hero, keeping the audience on the qui vive.
“The climax of the third act was the great sensational feature of the play. In this act Dick escapes from his enemies and all sorts of crafty snares, and is barely in time to take his place in the Yale boat, which is to race against Harvard and Cornell. Carius Dubad has appeared on the scene, and, at the last moment, in order to break Dick’s spirit, he reveals that Dick’s guardian has squandered his fortune, so that the hero is penniless and will be forced to leave college. For all of this revelation, Trueheart enters the boat and aids in winning the race against Harvard and Cornell, greatly to the discomfiture of the villainous father and son, who have bet heavily against Yale. Of course, Mr. Merriwell made Yale win in his play. The mechanism that showed the boat race on the distant river, the moving observation train, the swaying crowds with waving flags, hats, and handkerchiefs, was truly a most wonderful arrangement, and it filled the spectators with admiration and astonishment. A quick ‘dark shift’ followed, and then the boats actually appeared, with Yale the winner, and Trueheart was brought onto the stage in the arms of his admiring fellow collegians, while the curtain descended amid a burst of genuine enthusiastic applause such as is seldom heard in any theater. Mr. Merriwell was called before the curtain, and he made a brief speech, which seemed modest and characteristic of this young actor and playwright, who is certain to follow a brilliant career on the American stage.
“In the final act the hero was in straitened circumstances, but all ends well, with the discomfiture of old Dubad and his worthy son, and the final settlement of all jealousies between the other characters.
“Not only as author of the play, but as the star does Frank Merriwell merit a full meed of credit and praise. Although he is young and impulsive, and his acting might not meet the approval of certain critics, there was a breeziness and freshness about him that captivated and carried the audience. It is said that he has never attended a school of acting, and this may readily be believed, for there is nothing affected, nothing stiff, nothing stilted and mechanical about his work on the stage. In his case, at least, it has been greatly to his advantage not to attend a dramatic school. He is a born actor, and he must work out his own methods without being hampered by convention and instruction from those who believe in doing everything by rule. He is a handsome young man, and his stage presence is both striking and effective. Worthy of note was it that he enunciated every word distinctly and pronounced it correctly, in great contrast to many other stars, who sometimes mangle speech in a most distressing manner. He has a voice that seems in perfect keeping with his splendid figure, being clear as a mellow bell, full of force, and delightful to hear.
“The work of Douglas Dunton as Barry Hattleman was good. Mr. Small, who is a very large man, faithfully portrayed Spruce Downing, the lazy student. Crack Hyerman, the hot-blooded Southerner, as represented by Bartley Hodge, who made the Southerner a thorough fire-eater, who would fight for his ‘honor’ at the drop of the hat. As Reuben Grass, Ephraim Gallup literally convulsed the audience. Without doubt his delineation of the Down-East Yankee was the best ever seen in Denver.
“Miss Cassie Lee played the sweet and winsome Millie Blossom, and her singing and dancing met approval. The Inez Dalton of Miss Stanley was handled with great skill, and she was jealous, passionate, resentful, and loving in turn, and in a manner that seemed true to life. As Nancy Noodle, an old maid in love with Prof. Gash, Miss Agnes Kirk was acceptable.
“And now comes the duty of mentioning a man who was the surprise of the evening. His name was given on the program as William Shakespeare Burns, and, as he represented a burlesque tragedian, it was supposed that the name was assumed. It has been learned, however, that this is the name by which he was known in real life. Mr. Burns first appeared in the second act, and as Edwin Treadwell, the frayed, back-number tragedian, he literally caused many of the audience to choke in the effort to repress their uncontrollable laughter. At the close of the third act, a local theatrical man declared that W. S. Burns far excelled as a comedian anybody he had ever seen essay a similar part. But the sensation came in the fourth act, when the actor started to parody Hamlet’s soliloquy, but seemed to forget himself and the parody together, and swung into the original William Shakespeare. The laughter died out, the audience sat spellbound, scarcely breathing. The eyes of every person were fixed on the actor, who went through the soliloquy to the end, giving it with all the power of a Forrest or a Booth. As the actor retired, the audience awoke, realized it had seen and heard a man who was no clown, but a real tragedian, and the applause was long and loud.
“William Shakespeare Burns did not appear again on the stage of that theater; he will not appear again on any stage. He is dead! But few particulars have been learned about him, but it seems that this was his first attempt to play comedy – and his last. He regarded himself as the equal of any interpreter of Shakespeare, living or dead, but misfortune and his own weakness had never permitted him to rise to the heights to which he aspired. Grim necessity had compelled him to accept Mr. Merriwell’s offer to play in ‘True Blue’ the part of the burlesque tragedian. His heart and soul had rebelled against doing so, and often at rehearsals he had wept with mortification after going through with his part. His body was weakened by privation. He declared last night that his heart was broken. A few minutes after leaving the stage the last time he expired in one of the dressing rooms of the theater. Thus ended a life that might have been a grand success but for the failings of weak human nature.
“Mr. Merriwell will go on the road at once with ‘True Blue.’ He has engaged a competent man to fill the place made vacant by the death of Mr. Burns. His route for some little time is booked, and he leaves Denver to-day for Puelbo, where he opens to-morrow. The play, the star, and the company merit success, and we hope Mr. Merriwell will find it convenient to play a regular engagement in this city before long. It is certain, if he does, he will be greeted by packed houses.” – Denver Herald and Advertiser.
All the Denver papers contained notices of the performance, but the one quoted was the longest and the most elaborate. Not one of the notices was unfavorable. They were enough to make the heart of any manager glad, and it was not strange that Frank felt well satisfied.
But he was inexpressibly saddened by the sudden and tragic death of William Burns, for he had recognized the genius in the old actor, who had been dragged down from a highroad to prosperity and fame by the hands of the relentless demon that has destroyed so many men of genius, drink.
On account of his bookings, Frank could not remain in Denver to attend the funeral of the veteran tragedian, but he resolved that Burns should be buried with all honors, and he made arrangements for a suitable funeral.
Of course, the papers announced the funeral, and, the story of Burns’ remarkable death having become familiar to all, the church was packed to the doors. The man whose wretched life had promised a wretched death and a nameless grave was buried without pomp, but with such honors as might have been given to one well known and highly esteemed.
Above his grave a modest marble was placed, and chiseled on it was a single line from the “Immortal Bard,” whom he loved and understood and interpreted with the faithfulness and fire of genius:
“After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well.”
And every expense Frank Merriwell provided for. Nothing was neglected; everything was done that good taste and a good heart demanded.
