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'That is what makes it impossible, assented Pinchas. 'And there is no other part worthy of Mrs. Goldwater. 'It may be she would sacrifice herself, said the manager musingly. 'And who am I that I should ask her to sacrifice herself? replied the poet modestly. 'Fanny won't sacrifice Ophelia, Kloot observed drily to his chief. 'You hear? said Goldwater, as quick as lightning.
At last he found himself in the little bureau and dressing-room in which Goldwater was angrily changing his trousers. Kloot, the actor-manager's factotum, a big-nosed insolent youth, sat on the table beside the telephone, a peaked cap on his head, his legs swinging. 'Son of a witch! You come and disturb all my house. What do you want? cried Goldwater. 'I want to talk to you about rehearsals.
I'm a great stage-manager as well as a great poet. There shall be no more prompter. 'Indeed! Goldwater raised the eyebrow he was pencilling. 'And how are you going to get on without a prompter? 'Very simple a month's rehearsals. Goldwater turned an apoplectic hue deeper than his rouge. Kloot broke in impishly: 'It is very good of you to give us a month of your valuable time.
'I and you are the only two people in New York who serve the poetic drama I by writing, you by producing. Goldwater still shook his head, albeit a whit appeased by the flattery. Kloot replied for him: 'Your manuscript shall be returned to you by the first dustcart. Pinchas disregarded the youth. 'But I am willing you shall have only a fortnight's rehearsals. I believe in you, Goldwater.
When there were no more encore verses, Ignatz Levitsky would turn to the audience and bow in acknowledgment of the compliment. Pinchas's eyes were orbs straining at their sockets; froth gathered on his lips. Mrs. Goldwater bounded on, fantastically mad, her songs set to comic airs. The great house received her in the same comic spirit.
Goldwater, on the stage, glared at the little poet. At last a compromise was found. A chair was placed at the back of a packed box. American boxes are constructed for publicity, not privacy, but the other dozen occupants bulked between him and the house. He could see, but he could not be seen. Sullen and mortified he listened contemptuously to the play.
But that he himself should be refused when he tried to pass in 'on his face' that authors should be admitted neither at the stage door nor at the public door this had not occurred to him as within the possibilities of even theatrical humanity. 'Pigs! Pigs! Pigs! he shrieked into the box office. 'You and Goldwater and Kloot! Pigs! Pigs! Pigs! I have indeed cast my pearls before swine.
Goldwater coughed. 'But Ophelia is really a small part, he murmured. 'It is, Pinchas acquiesced. 'Your wife's tragic powers could only be displayed in "Hamlet" if, like another equally celebrated actress, she appeared as the Prince of Palestine himself. 'Heaven forbid my wife should so lower herself! said Goldwater. 'A decent Jewish housewife cannot appear in breeches.
There's plenty of money in this piece yet. 'Money bah! But merit? 'You fellows are as jealous as the devil. 'Me jealous of kangaroos! In Central Park you see giraffes and tortoises too. Central Park has more talent than this scribbler of yours. 'I doubt if there's a bigger peacock than here, murmured Goldwater. 'I'll write you about rehearsals, said Kloot, winking at Goldwater.
He hied to the nearest drug-store, and entering the telephone cabinet rang up Goldwater. 'Hello, there! came the voice of Kloot. 'Who are you? Pinchas had a vivid vision of the big-nosed youth, in his peaked cap, sitting on the table by the telephone, swinging his legs; but he replied craftily, in a disguised voice: 'You, Goldwater? 'No; Goldwater's on the stage. Pinchas groaned.
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