The Real and the Make-Believe

"The Real and the Make-Believe" is a collection of stories by Rex Ellingwood Beach that explores the intricate boundaries between reality and imagination. In this engaging anthology, Beach delves into the human experience, blending vivid storytelling with deep psychological insights. Through various characters and situations, he examines how our beliefs and perceptions shape our understanding of the world. The book captures the tension between truth and fiction, encouraging readers to reflect on their own lives and the narratives they create. Beach's rich prose and thought-provoking themes make this work a compelling read for those interested in the interplay of reality and fantasy.

• Short story

								
On his way down-town Phillips stopped at a Subway news-stand and
bought all the morning papers. He acknowledged that he was vastly
excited. As he turned in at the stage door he thrilled at sight of
the big electric sign over the theater, pallid now in the morning
sunshine, but symbolizing in frosted letters the thing for which he
had toiled and fought, had hoped and despaired these many years. There
it hung, a dream come true, and it read, "A Woman's Thrall, By Henry
Phillips."

The stage-door man greeted him with a toothless smile and handed him a
bundle of telegrams, mumbling: "I knew it would go over, Mr. Phillips.
The notices are swell, ain't they?"

"They seem to be."

"I ain't seen their equal since 'The Music Master' opened. We'll run a
year."

This differed from the feverish, half-hysterical praise of the
evening before. Phillips had made allowances then for the spell of a
first-night enthusiasm and had prepared himself for a rude awakening
this morning--he had seen too many plays fail, to put much faith
in the fulsomeness of first-nighters--but the words of the doorman
carried conviction. He had felt confident up to the last moment, to be
sure, for he knew he had put his life's best work into this drama, and
he believed he had written with a master's cunning; nevertheless, when
his message had gone forth a sudden panic had seized him. He had begun
to fear that his judgment was distorted by his nearness to the play,
or that his absorption in it had blinded him to its defects. It was
evident now, however, that these fears had been ill-founded, for no
play could receive such laudatory reviews as these and fail to set
New-Yorkers aflame.

Certain printed sentences kept dancing through his memory: "Unknown
dramatist of tremendous power," "A love story so pitiless, so true,
that it electrifies," "The deep cry of a suffering heart," "Norma
Berwynd enters the galaxy of stars."

That last sentence was the most significant, the most wonderful of
all. Norma Berwynd a star! Phillips could scarcely credit it; he
wondered if she had the faintest notion of how or why her triumph had
been effected.

The property man met him, and he too was smiling.

"I just came from the office," he began. "Say! they're raving. It's
the biggest hit in ten years."

"Oh, come now! It's too early for the afternoon papers--"

"The papers be blowed! It's the public that makes a play; the whole
town knows about this one already. It's in and over, I tell you;
we'll sell out tonight. Believe me, this is a knock-out--a regular
bull's-eye. It won't take no government bonds to bridge us over the
next two weeks."

"Did you get the new props?"

"Sure! The electrician is working on the drop light for the first act;
we'll have a better glass crash tonight, and I've got a brand-new
dagger. That other knife was all right, but Mr. Francis forgot how to
handle it."

"Nevertheless, it's dangerous. We came near having a real tragedy last
evening. Don't let's take any more chances."

"It wasn't my fault, on the level," the property man insisted.
"Francis always 'goes up' at an opening."

"Thank Heaven the papers didn't notice it."

"Huh! We could afford to kill an actor for notices like them. It
would make great advertising and please the critics. Say! I knew this
show was a hit."

Under the dim-lit vault of the stage Phillips found the third-act
scenery set for the rehearsal he had called, then, having given his
instructions to the wardrobe woman, he drew a chair up before a bunch
light and prepared to read for a second time the morning reviews.

He had attempted to read them at breakfast, but his wife--The
playwright sighed heavily at the memory of that scene. Léontine had
been very unjust, as usual. Her temper had run away with her again and
had forced him to leave the house with his splendid triumph spoiled,
his first taste of victory like ashes in his mouth. He was, in a way,
accustomed to these endless, senseless rows, but their increasing
frequency was becoming more and more trying, and he was beginning to
doubt his ability to stand them much longer. It seemed particularly
nasty of Léontine to seize upon this occasion to vent her open dislike
of him--their relations were already sufficiently strained. Marriage,
all at once, assumed a very lopsided aspect to the playwright; he had
given so much and received so little.

With an effort he dismissed the subject from his mind and set himself
to the more pleasant task of looking at his play through the eyes of
the reviewers.

They had been very fair, he decided at last. Their only criticism
was one which he had known to be inevitable, therefore he felt no
resentment.

"Norma Berwynd was superb," he read; "she combined with rare beauty
a personality at once bewitching and natural. She gave life to her
lines; she was deep, intense, true; she rose to her emotional heights
in a burst of power which electrified the audience. We cannot but
wonder why such an artist has remained so long undiscovered."

The dramatist smiled; surely that was sufficient praise to compensate
him for the miserable experience he had just undergone. He read
further:

"Alas, that the same kind things cannot be said of Irving Francis,
whose name is blazoned forth in letters of fire above the theater. He
has established himself as one of America's brightest stars; but the
rôle of John Danton does not enhance his reputation. In his lighter
scenes he was delightful, but his emotional moments did not ring true.
In the white-hot climax of the third act, for instance, which is the
big scene of the play, he was stiff, unnatural, unconvincing. Either
he saw Miss Berwynd taking the honors of stardom away from him and
generously submerged his own talent in order to enhance her triumph,
or it is but another proof of the statement that husband and wife do
not make convincing lovers in the realm of the make-believe. It was
surely due to no lack of opportunity on his part--"

So the writer thought Irving Francis had voluntarily allowed his wife
to rival him. Phillips smiled at this. Some actors might be capable
of such generosity, but hardly Irving Francis. He recalled the man's
insistent demands during rehearsals that the 'script be changed to
build up his own part and undermine that of his wife; the many heated
arguments which had even threatened to prevent the final performance
of the piece. Irving's egotism had blinded him to the true result
of these quarrels, for although he had been given more lines, more
scenes, Phillips had seen to it that Norma was the one to really
profit by the changes. Author and star had been upon the verge
of rupture more than once during that heartbreaking period of
preparation, but Phillips was supremely glad now that he had held
himself in control. Léontine's constant nagging had borne fruit, after

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