The Real and the Make-Believe Page #2

"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

								

all, in that it had at least taught him to bite down on his words, and
to smile at provocation.

Yes! Norma Berwynd was a star in spite of herself, in spite of her
husband. She was no longer merely the wife of Irving Francis, the
popular idol. Phillips was glad that she did not know how long it had
taken him to effect her independence, nor the price he had paid for
it, since, under the circumstances, the truth could help neither of
them.

He was aroused from his abstraction by the rustle of a woman's
garments, and leaped to his feet with a glad light in his eyes, only
to find Léontine, his wife, confronting him.

"Oh!" he said; then with an effort, "What is the matter?"

"Nothing."

"I didn't know you were coming down-town."

"Whom were you expecting?" Léontine mocked, with that slight accent
which betrayed her Gallic origin.

"No one."

She regarded him with fixed hostility. "I came down to see your
rehearsal. You don't object, I hope?"

"Why should I object?" Phillips turned away with a shrug. "I'm
surprised, that's all--after what you said this morning. Isn't your
interest in the play a trifle--tardy?"

"No! I've been greatly interested in it all the time. I read it
several times in manuscript."

"Indeed! I didn't know that. It won't be much of a rehearsal this
morning; I'm merely going to run over the third act with Mr. and Mrs.
Francis."

"You can rehearse her forty years and she'll never play the part."

"The critics don't agree with you; they rave over her. If Francis
himself--"

Mrs. Phillips uttered an exclamation of anger. "Oh, of course, she
is perfect! You wouldn't give me the part, would you? No. You gave it
to her. But it's mine by rights; I have the personality."

"I wrote it for her," said the husband, after a pause. "I can't see
you in it."

"Naturally," she sneered. "Well, I can, and it's not too late to
make the change. I'll replace her. My name will help the piece."

"Léontine!" he exclaimed, in amazement. "What are you talking about?
The play is a tremendous success as it is, and Miss Berwynd is a big
hit. I'd be crazy to make a change."

"You won't give me the part?"

"Certainly not. You shouldn't ask it."

"Doesn't Léontine Murat mean more to the public than Norma Berwynd?"
she demanded.

"Until last night, yes. To-day--well, no. She has created this rôle.
Besides--you--couldn't play the part."

"And why not, if you please?"

"I don't want to hurt your feelings, Léontine."

"Go on!" she commanded, in a voice roughened by passion.

"In the first place you're not--young enough." The woman quivered. "In
the second place, you've grown heavy. Then, too, your accent--"

She broke out at him furiously. "So! I'm old and fat and foreign. I've
lost my beauty. You think so, eh? Well, other men don't. I'll show you
what men think of me--"

"This is no time for threats," he interrupted, coldly.

"Bah! I don't threaten." Seizing him by the arm, she swung him about,
for she was a large woman and still in the fullest vigor of her
womanhood. "Listen! You can't fool me. I know why you wrote this play.
I know why you took that girl and made a star of her. I've known the
truth all along."

"You have no cause to--"

"Don't lie!" she stormed at him. "I can read you like a book. But I
won't stand for it." She flung his arm violently from her and turned
away.

"I think you'd better go home," he told her. "You'll have the stage
hands talking in a minute."

She laughed disagreeably, ignoring his words. "I watched you write
this play! I have eyes, even if Irving Francis is blind. It's time he
knew what is going on."

"There is nothing going on," Phillips cried, heatedly; but his wife
merely shrugged her splendid shoulders and, opening her gold vanity
case, gave her face a deft going over with a tiny powder puff. After
a time the man continued: "I could understand your attitude if
you--cared for me, but some years ago you took pains to undeceive me
on that point."

Léontine's lip curled, and she made no answer.

"This play is a fine piece of property; it will bring us a great deal
of money; it is the thing for which I have worked years."

"I am going to tell Francis the truth about you and his wife!" she
said.

"But there's nothing to tell," the man insisted, with an effort to
restrain himself. "Besides, you must know the result if you start a
thing like that. He'll walk out and take his wife with him. That would
ruin--"

"Give me her part."

"I won't be coerced," he flared up, angrily. "You are willing to
ruin me, out of pique, I suppose, but I won't permit it. This is the
biggest thing I ever did, or ever will do, perhaps; it means honor and
recognition, and--you're selfish enough to spoil it all. I've never
spoken to Norma Berwynd in any way to which her husband or you could
object. Therefore I resent your attitude."

"My attitude! I'm your wife."

He took a turn across the stage, followed by her eyes. Pausing before
her at length, he said, quietly: "I've asked you to go home and now
I insist upon it. If you are here when I return I shall dismiss the
rehearsal. I refuse to allow our domestic relations to interfere with
my business." He strode out to the front of the house and then paced
the dark foyer, striving to master his emotions. A moment later he
saw his wife leave the stage and assumed that she had obeyed his
admonitions and gone home.

The property-man appeared with an armful of draperies and mechanical
appliances, interrupting his whistling long enough to call out.

"Here's the new hangings, Mr. Phillips, and the Oriental rugs. I've
got the dagger, too." He held a gleaming object on high. "Believe me,
it's some Davy Crockett. There's a newspaper guy out back and he wants
your ideas on the American drama. I told him they were great. Will you
see him?"

"Not now. Tell him to come back later."

"Say! That John Danton is some character. Why don't you let him have
the gal?"

"Because--well, because it doesn't happen in real life, and I've tried
to make this play real, more than anything else."

When Norma Berwynd and her husband arrived Phillips had completely
regained his composure, and he greeted them cordially. The woman
seemed awed, half-frightened, by her sudden rise to fame. She seemed
to be walking in a dream, and a great wonder dwelt in her eyes. As for
Francis, he returned the author's greeting curtly, making it plain
that he was in no agreeable temper.

"I congratulate you, Phillips," he said. "You and Norma have become
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