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Andrew Lang - "Oxford"

William J. Kountz, Jr. - "Billy Baxter's Letters"

C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne - "The Lost Continent"

Edith Wharton - "The Age of Innocence"

The Price She Paid

D >> David Graham Phillips >> The Price She Paid




Agnes Belloc was typical--certainly of a large and
growing class in this day--of the decay of ancient temples
and the decline of the old-fashioned idealism that
made men fancy they lived nobly because they professed
and believed nobly. She had no ethical standards. She
simply met each situation as it arose and dealt with it
as common sense seemed in that particular instance to
dictate. For a thousand years genius has been striving
with the human race to induce it to abandon its
superstitions and hypocrisies and to defy common sense, so
adaptable, so tolerant, so conducive to long and healthy
and happy life. Grossly materialistic, but alluringly
comfortable. Whether for good or for evil or for both
good and evil, the geniuses seem in a fair way at last
to prevail over the idealists, religious and political.
And Mrs. Belloc, without in the least realizing it, was
a most significant sign of the times.

``Your throat seems to be better to-day,'' said she to
Mildred at breakfast. ``Those simple house-remedies
I tried on you last night seem to have done some good.
Nothing like heat--hot water--and no eating. The
main thing was doing without dinner last night.''

``My nerves are quieter,'' advanced Mildred as the
likelier explanation of the return of the soul of music to
its seat. ``And my mind's at rest.''

``Yes, that's good,'' said plain Agnes Belloc. ``But
getting the stomach straight and keeping it straight's
the main thing. My old grandmother could eat anything
and do anything. I've seen her put in a glass of
milk or a saucer of ice-cream on top of a tomato-salad.
The way she kept well was, whenever she began to feel
the least bit off, she stopped eating. Not a bite would
she touch till she felt well again.''

Mildred, moved by an impulse stronger than her
inclination, produced the Keith paper. ``I wish you'd
read this, and tell me what you think of it. You've
got so much common sense.''

Agnes read it through to the end, began at the
beginning and read it through again. ``That sounds
good to me,'' said she. ``I want to think it over. If
you don't mind I'd like to show it to Miss Blond. She
knows a lot about those things. I suppose you're going
to see Mr. Crossley to-day?--that's the musical
manager's name, isn't it?''

``I'm going at eleven. That isn't too early, is it?''

``If I were you, I'd go as soon as I was dressed for
the street. And if you don't get to see him, wait till
you do. Don't talk to under-staffers. Always go
straight for the head man. You've got something that's
worth his while. How did he get to be head man?
Because he knows a good thing the minute he sees it. The
under fellows are usually under because they are so
taken up with themselves and with impressing people
how grand they are that they don't see anything else.
So, when you talk to them, you wear yourself out and
waste your time.''

``There's only one thing that makes me nervous,''
said Mildred. ``Everyone I've ever talked with about
going on the stage--everyone who has talked candidly
--has said--''

``Yes, I know,'' said Mrs. Belloc, as Mildred paused
to search for smooth-sounding words in which to dress,
without disguising, a distinctly ugly idea. ``I've heard
that, too. I don't know whether there's anything in it
or not.'' She looked admiringly at Mildred, who that
morning was certainly lovely enough to tempt any man.
``If there is anything in it, why, I reckon YOU'D be up
against it. That's the worst of having men at the top
in any trade and profession. A woman's got to get
her chance through some man, and if he don't choose
to let her have it, she's likely to fail.''

Mildred showed how this depressed her.

``But don't you fret about that till you have to,''
advised Mrs. Belloc. ``I've a notion that, even if it's
true, it may not apply to you. Where a woman offers
for a place that she can fill about as well as a hundred
other women, she's at the man's mercy; but if she knows
that she's far and away the best for the place, I don't
think a man's going to stand in his own light. Let him
see that he can make money through YOU, money he
won't make if he don't get you. Then, I don't think
you'll have any trouble.''

But Mildred's depression did not decrease. ``If my
voice could only be relied on!'' she exclaimed. ``Isn't
it exasperating that I've got a delicate throat!''

``It's always something,'' said Mrs. Belloc. ``One
thing's about as bad as another, and anything can be
overcome.''

``No, not in my case,'' said Mildred. ``The peculiar
quality of my voice--what makes it unusual--is due
to the delicateness of my throat.''

``Maybe so,'' said Mrs. Belloc.

``Of course, I can always sing--after a fashion,''
continued Mildred. ``But to be really valuable on the
stage you've got to be able always to sing at your best.
So I'm afraid I'm in the class of those who'll suit, one
about as well as another.''

``You've got to get out of that class,'' said Mrs.
Belloc. ``The men in that class, and the women, have
to do any dirty work the boss sees fit to give 'em--and
not much pay, either. Let me tell you one thing, Miss
Stevens. If you can't get among the few at the top
in the singing game, you must look round for some game
where you can hope to be among the few. No matter
WHAT it is. By using your brains and working hard,
there's something you can do better than pretty nearly
anybody else can or will do it. You find that.''

The words sank in, sank deep. Mildred, sense of her
surroundings lost, was gazing straight ahead with an
expression that gave Mrs. Belloc hope and even a
certain amount of confidence. There was a distinct
advance; for, after she reflected upon all that Mildred had
told her, little of her former opinion of Mildred's
chances for success had remained but a hope detained
not without difficulty. Mrs. Belloc knew the human
race unusually well for a woman--unusually well for
a human being of whatever sex or experience. She had
discovered how rare is the temperament, the combination
of intelligence and tenacity, that makes for success.
She had learned that most people, judged by any stand-
ard, were almost total failures, that most of the more
or less successful were so merely because the world had
an enormous amount of important work to be done,
even though half-way, and had no one but those half-
competents to do it. As incompetence in a man would
be tolerated where it would not be in a woman, obviously
a woman, to get on, must have the real temperament
of success.

She now knew enough about Mildred to be able to
``place'' her in the ``lady'' class--those brought up
not only knowing how to do nothing with a money
value (except lawful or unlawful man-trapping), but
also trained to a sensitiveness and refinement and false
shame about work that made it exceedingly difficult if
not impossible for them to learn usefulness. She knew
all Mildred's handicaps, both those the girl was
conscious of and those far heavier ones which she
fatuously regarded as advantages. How was Mildred ever
to learn to dismiss and disregard herself as the pretty
woman of good social position, an object of admiration
and consideration? Mildred, in the bottom of her heart,
was regarding herself as already successful--successful
at the highest a woman can achieve or ought to
aspire to achieve--was regarding her career, however
she might talk or might fancy she believed, as a mere
livelihood, a side issue. She would be perhaps more
than a little ashamed of her stage connections, should
she make any, until she should be at the very top--
and how get to the top when one is working under the
handicap of shame? Above all, how was this indulgently
and shelteredly reared lady to become a work-
ing woman, living a routine life, toiling away day in
and day out, with no let up, permitting no one and
nothing to break her routine? ``Really,'' thought
Agnes Belloc, ``she ought to have married that Baird
man--or stayed on with the nasty general. I wonder
why she didn't! That's the only thing that gives me
hope. There must be something in her--something
that don't appear--something she doesn't know about,
herself. What is it? Maybe it was only vanity and
vacillation. Again, I don't know.''

The difficulty Mrs. Belloc labored under in her
attempt to explore and map Mildred Gower was a difficulty
we all labor under in those same enterprises. We
cannot convince ourselves--in spite of experience
after experience--that a human character is never
consistent and homogeneous, is always conglomerate,
that there are no two traits, however naturally exclusive,
which cannot coexist in the same personality, that
circumstance is the dominating factor in human action
and brings forward as dominant characteristics now
one trait or set of traits, consistent or inconsistent, and
now another. The Alexander who was Aristotle's model
pupil was the same Alexander as the drunken debaucher.
Indeed, may it not be that the characters which play
the large parts in the comedy of life are naturally those
that offer to the shifting winds of circumstances the
greatest variety of strongly developed and contradictory
qualities? For example, if it was Mildred's latent
courage rescued her from Siddall, was it not her strong
tendency to vacillation that saved her from a loveless
and mercenary marriage to Stanley Baird? Perhaps
the deep underlying truth is that all unusual people
have in common the character that centers a powerful
aversion to stagnation; thus, now by their strong
qualities, now by their weaknesses, they are swept inevitably
on and on and ever on. Good to-day, bad to-morrow,
good again the day after, weak in this instance, strong
in that, now brave and now cowardly, soft at one time,
hard at another, generous and the reverse by turns, they
are consistent only in that they are never at rest, but
incessantly and inevitably go.

Mildred reluctantly rose, moved toward the door with
lingering step. ``I guess I'd better make a start,''
said she.

``That's the talk,'' said Mrs. Belloc heartily. But
the affectionate glance she sent after the girl was dubious--
even pitying.



IX


TWO minutes' walk through to Broadway, and she
was at her destination. There, on the other side of the
way, stood the Gayety Theater, with the offices of Mr.
Clarence Crossley overlooking the intersection of the
two streets. Crossley was intrenched in the remotest
of a series of rooms, each tenanted by under-staffers
of diminishing importance as you drew way from the
great man. It was next to impossible to get at him--
a cause of much sneering and dissatisfaction in theatrical
circles. Crossley, they said, was exclusive, had
the swollen head, had forgotten that only a few years
before he had been a cheap little ticket-seller grateful
for a bow from any actor who had ever had his name
up. Crossley insisted that he was not a victim of folie
de grandeur, that, on the contrary, he had become less
vain as he had risen, where he could see how trivial a
thing rising was and how accidental. Said he:

``Why do I shut myself in? Because I'm what I am
--a good thing, easy fruit. You say that men a hundred
times bigger than I'll ever be don't shut themselves
up. You say that Mountain, the biggest financier in
the country, sits right out where anybody can go up to
him. Yes, but who'd dare go up to him? It's generally
known that he's a cannibal, that he kills his own
food and eats it warm and raw. So he can afford to sit
in the open. If I did that, all my time and all my
money would go to the cheap-skates with hard-luck
tales. I don't hide because I'm haughty, but because
I'm weak and soft.''

In appearance Mr. Crossley did not suggest his name.
He was a tallish, powerful-looking person with a
smooth, handsome, audacious face, with fine, laughing,
but somehow untrustworthy eyes--at least untrustworthy
for women, though women had never profited by
the warning. He dressed in excellent taste, almost
conspicuously, and the gay and expensive details of his
toilet suggested a man given over to liveliness. As a
matter of fact, this liveliness was potential rather than
actual. Mr. Crossley was always intending to resume
the giddy ways of the years before he became a great
man, but was always so far behind in the important
things to be done and done at once that he was forced
to put off. However, his neckties and his shirts and his
flirtations, untrustworthy eyes kept him a reputation for
being one of the worst cases in Broadway. In vain did
his achievements show that he could not possibly have
time or strength for anything but work. He looked
like a rounder; he was in a business that gave endless
dazzling opportunities for the lively life; a rounder he
was, therefore.

He was about forty. At first glance, so vivid and
energetic was he, he looked like thirty-five, but at second
glance one saw the lines, the underlying melancholy signs
of strain, the heavy price he had paid for phenomenal
success won by a series of the sort of risks that make the
hair fall as autumn leaves on a windy day and make
such hairs as stick turn rapidly gray. Thus, there
were many who thought Crossley was through vanity
shy of the truth by five or six years when he said forty.

In ordinary circumstances Mildred would never have
got at Crossley. This was the first business call of her
life where she had come as an unknown and unsupported
suitor. Her reception would have been such at the
hands of Crossley's insolent and ill-mannered underlings
that she would have fled in shame and confusion.
It is even well within the possibilities that she would
have given up all idea of a career, would have sent for
Baird, and so on. And not one of those who, timid
and inexperienced, have suffered rude rebuff at their first
advance, would have condemned her. But it so chanced
--whether by good fortune or by ill the event was to
tell--that she did not have to face a single underling.
The hall door was open. She entered. It happened
that while she was coming up in the elevator a
quarrel between a motorman and a driver had heated
into a fight, into a small riot. All the underlings had
rushed out on a balcony that commanded a superb view
of the battle. The connecting doors were open;
Mildred advanced from room to room, seeking someone who
would take her card to Mr. Crossley. When she at
last faced a closed door she knocked.

``Come!'' cried a pleasant voice.

And in she went, to face Crossley himself--Crossley,
the ``weak and soft,'' caught behind his last entrenchment
with no chance to escape. Had Mildred looked
the usual sort who come looking for jobs in musical
comedy, Mr. Crossley would not have risen--not be-
cause he was snobbish, but because, being a sensitive,
high-strung person, he instinctively adopted the manner
that would put the person before him at ease. He
glanced at Mildred, rose, and thrust back forthwith the
slangy, offhand personality that was perhaps the most
natural--or was it merely the most used?--of his
many personalities. It was Crossley the man of the
world, the man of the artistic world, who delighted
Mildred with a courteous bow and offer of a chair, as he
said:

``You wished to see me?''

``If you are Mr. Crossley,'' said Mildred.

``I should be tempted to say I was, if I wasn't,''
said he, and his manner made it a mere pleasantry to
put her at ease.

``There was no one in the outside room, so I walked
on and on until your door stopped me.''

``You'll never know how lucky you were,'' said he.
``They tell me those fellows out there have shocking
manners.''

``Have you time to see me now? I've come to apply
for a position in musical comedy.''

``You have not been on the stage, Miss--''

``Gower. Mildred Gower. I've decided to use my
own name.''

``I know you have not been on the stage.''

``Except as an amateur--and not even that for
several years. But I've been working at my voice.''

Crossley was studying her, as she stood talking--
she had refused the chair. He was more than favorably
impressed. But the deciding element was not
Mildred's excellent figure or her charm of manner or
her sweet and lovely face. It was superstition. Just
at that time Crossley had been abruptly deserted by
Estelle Howard; instead of going on with the rehearsals
of ``The Full Moon,'' in which she was to be starred,
she had rushed away to Europe with a violinist with
whom she had fallen in love at the first rehearsal.
Crossley was looking about for someone to take her
place. He had been entrenched in those offices for
nearly five years; in all that time not a single soul of the
desperate crowds that dogged him had broken through
his guard. Crossley was as superstitious as was everyone
else who has to do with the stage.

``What kind of a voice?'' asked he.

``Lyric soprano.''

``You have music there. What?''

`` `Batti Batti' and a little song in English--`The
Rose and the Bee.' ''

Crossley forgot his manners, turned his back squarely
upon her, thrust his hands deep into his trousers
pockets, and stared out through the window. He presently
wheeled round. She would not have thought his
eyes could be so keen. Said he: ``You were studying
for grand opera?''

``Yes.''

``Why do you drop it and take up this?''

``No money,'' replied she. ``I've got to make my
living at once.''

``Well, let's see. Come with me, please.''

They went out by a door into the hall, went back to
the rear of the building, in at an iron door, down a
flight of steep iron skeleton steps dimly lighted.
Mildred had often been behind the scenes in her amateur
theatrical days; but even if she had not, she would have
known where she was. Crossley called, ``Moldini!
Moldini!''

The name was caught up by other voices and
repeated again and again, more and more remotely. A
moment, and a small dark man with a superabundance
of greasy dark hair appeared. ``Miss Gower,'' said
Crossley, ``this is Signor Moldini. He will play your
accompaniments.'' Then to the little Italian, ``Piano
on the stage?''

``Yes, sir.''

To Mildred with a smile, ``Will you try?''

She bent her head. She had no voice--not for song,
not for speech, not even for a monosyllable.

Crossley took Moldini aside where Mildred could not
hear. ``Mollie,'' said he, ``this girl crept up on me,
and I've got to give her a trial. As you see, she's a
lady, and you know what they are.''

``Punk,'' said Moldini.

Crossley nodded. ``She seems a nice sort, so I want
to let her down easy. I'll sit back in the house, in the
dark. Run her through that `Batti Batti' thing she's
got with her. If she's plainly on the fritz, I'll light a
cigarette. If I don't light up, try the other song she
has. If I still don't light up make her go through that
`Ah, were you here, love,' from the piece. But if
I light up, it means that I'm going to light out, and
that you're to get rid of her--tell her we'll let her
know if she'll leave her address. You understand?''

``Perfectly.''

Far from being thrilled and inspired, her surroundings
made her sick at heart--the chill, the dampness,
the bare walls, the dim, dreary lights, the coarsely-
painted flats-- At last she was on the threshold of her
chosen profession. What a profession for such a person
as she had always been! She stood beside Moldini,
seated at the piano. She gazed at the darkness,
somewhere in whose depths Crossley was hidden. After
several false starts she sang the ``Batti Batti'' through,
sang it atrociously--not like a poor professional, but
like a pretentious amateur, a reversion to a manner of
singing she had once had, but had long since got rid of.
She paused at the end, appalled by the silence, by the
awfulness of her own performance.

From the darkness a slight click. If she had known!
--for, it was Crossley's match-safe.

The sound, slight yet so clear, startled her, roused
her. She called out: ``Mr. Crossley, won't you please
be patient enough to let me try that again?''

A brief hesitation, then: ``Certainly.''

Once more she began. But this time there was no
hesitation. From first to last she did it as Jennings
had coached her, did it with all the beauty and energy
of her really lovely voice. As she ended, Moldini said
in a quiet but intense undertone: ``Bravo! Bravo!
Fresh as a bird on a bright spring morning.'' And
from the darkness came: ``Ah--that's better, Miss
Gower. That was professional work. Now for the
other.''

Thus encouraged and with her voice well warmed, she
could not but make a success of the song that was nearer
to what would be expected of her in musical comedy.
Crossley called out: ``Now, the sight singing, Moldini.
I don't expect you to do this well, Miss Gower. I simply
wish to get an idea of how you'd do a piece we
have in rehearsal.''

``You'll have no trouble with this,'' said Moldini, as
he opened the comedy song upon the rack with a
contemptuous whirl. ``It's the easy showy stuff that suits
the tired business man and his laced-in wife. Go at it
and yell.''

Mildred glanced through it. There was a subtle
something in the atmosphere now that put her at her
ease. She read the words aloud, laughing at their silly
sentimentality, she and Moldini and Crossley making
jokes about it. Soon she said: ``I'm ready.''

She sang it well. She asked them to let her try it
again. And the second time, with the words in her
mind and the simple melody, she was able to put
expression into it and to indicate, with restraint, the
action. Crossley came down the aisle.

``What do you think, Mollie?'' he said to Moldini.

``We might test her at a few rehearsals.''

Crossley meekly accepted the salutary check on his
enthusiasm. ``Do you wish to try, Miss Gower?''

Mildred was silent. She knew now the sort of piece
in which she was to appear. She had seen a few of
them, those cheap and vulgar farces with their thin
music, their more than dubious-looking people. What
a come-down! What a degradation! It was as bad
in its way as being the wife of General Siddall. And
she was to do this, in preference to marrying Stanley
Baird.

``You will be paid, of course, during rehearsal; that
is, as long as we are taking your time. Fifty dollars
a week is about as much as we can afford.'' Crossley
was watching her shrewdly, was advancing these
remarks in response to the hesitation he saw so plainly.
``Of course it isn't grand opera,'' he went on. ``In
fact, it's pretty low--almost as low as the public taste.
You see, we aren't subsidized by millionaires who want
people to think they're artistic, so we have to hustle to
separate the public from its money. But if you make
a hit, you can earn enough to put you into grand opera
in fine style.''

``I never heard of anyone's graduating from here
into grand opera,'' said Mildred.

``Because our stars make so much money and make
it so easily. It'll be your own fault if you don't.''

``Can't I come to just one rehearsal--to see whether
I can--can do it?'' pleaded Mildred.

Crossley, made the more eager and the more superstitious
by this unprecedented reluctance, shook his head.

``No. You must agree to stay as long as we want
you,'' said he. ``We can't allow ourselves to be trifled
with.''

``Very well,'' said Mildred resignedly. ``I will
rehearse as long as you want me.''

``And will stay for the run of the piece, if we want
that?'' said Crossley. ``You to get a hundred a week
if you are put in the cast. More, of course, if you
make a hit.''

``You mean I'm to sign a contract?'' cried Mildred
in dismay.

``Exactly,'' said Crossley. A truly amazing
performance. Moldini was not astonished, however, for he
had heard the songs, and he knew Crossley's difficulties
through Estelle Howard's flight. Also, he knew Crossley--
never so ``weak and soft'' that he trifled with
unlikely candidates for his productions. Crossley had got
up because he knew what to do and when to do it.

Mildred acquiesced. Before she was free to go into
the street again, she had signed a paper that bound her
to rehearse for three weeks at fifty dollars a week and
to stay on at a hundred dollars a week for forty weeks
or the run of ``The Full Moon,'' if Crossley so desired;
if he did not, she was free at the end of the rehearsals.
A shrewdly one-sided contract. But Crossley told himself
he would correct it, if she should by some remote
chance be good enough for the part and should make
a hit in it. This was no mere salve to conscience, by
the way. Crossley would not be foolish enough to give
a successful star just cause for disliking and distrusting
him and at the earliest opportunity leaving him to make
money for some rival manager.

Mrs. Belloc had not gone out, had been waiting in a
fever of anxiety. When Mildred came into her sitting-
room with a gloomy face and dropped to a chair as if
her last hope had abandoned her, it was all Agnes Belloc
could do to restrain her tears. Said she:

``Don't be foolish, my dear. You couldn't expect
anything to come of your first attempt.''

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