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THE SECRET DANCER

 

OVERTURE

 

WALDEN’S MEXICAN THEATRE buzzed like an angry beehive. Behind the scenes pandemonium reigned. Secondary stars, with maids, dressers and secretaries at their elbows, gave final, feverish, and in most cases unnecessary, touches to their make-up; the superchorus, or ballet, or what you will, stood about in groups, babbling excitedly; clusters of dazzling skin, sparkling eyes, and shining teeth; electricians, carpenters, propertymen, scene-shifters—the Black Squad of Theatreland—thrust and fought their way through the brilliant rabble, asking and receiving hoarse questions and orders of each other. Sam Walden himself, the American producer-owner, was here, there and everywhere; a bundle of nerves screwed up to snapping-point. Sam’s nerves were nearly always in that condition, but they never actually snapped. Stars of the first magnitude were fortunately still in their dressing-rooms with their dressers, their maids, and their temperaments.

One word describes Sam Walden, a much overused word. He was sensational. He had descended upon London a year or two back, had acquired a second-rate theatre, demolished it, and erected upon its ruins the largest, the most luxurious, the most perfectly appointed, and the most expensive house in London. In these days, when everything is super, Walden’s Mexican Theatre was a super-super-theatre. You entered through gorgeous, gleaming portals, your feet trod the pile of magnificent carpets, you were directed to the cloakrooms by a personage who, at first sight, you thought must surely be the President of the Mexican Republic in his national costume. You were conducted to your seat, upholstered to bursting-point, comfortable and embracing as a bed, by another personage, clearly one of the President’s private bodyguard.

Sam’s theatre defied description. Doors were of gold —well, they were golden. The walls were mosaic. Behind the boxes, and dotted here and there throughout the house, were ornamental gates, leading to nowhere; round the walls, above the mosaic, were grilles, looking on to nothing. Gates and grillework were silver—well, chromium. The whole house was open to the Mexican sky. Brilliantly-twinkling stars studded this artificial firmament, a huge golden moon rose with the curtain, passed slowly across the sky, and set with the last fall of the curtain. Little filmy clouds sailed overhead, occasionally obscuring the face of this astounding moon. Cactus-plants, shrubs and flowers were everywhere. Ushers and programme-sellers were all red and silver, huge hats and immense jingling spurs. Architecturally, the place was a mess. It was at once sensuous and riotous. Intellectually, it was an affront; emotionally, it was indigestible. And Sam charged outrageous prices, and filled his theatre nightly to capacity.

Yet Sam’s theatre was as nothing to Sam’s shows. In his descent upon London he had brought American ideas and methods with him. Plays, as a great fellow-countryman of Mr. Walden’s once remarked about history, were bunk. Sam dealt in spectacles. He produced what his advertisements termed Mammoth Musical Extravaganzas, he combed the world for his stars—he had made not a few himself—and he kept, tended, guarded, and generally looked after a very particular and private chorus, or ballet. Sam’s girls, as they were called in the profession, were world-famous. They were the hundred loveliest girls in the Empire. The public knew all about them; they were told all about them daily; they believed what they read. And as a matter of cold, hard fact quite a number of them were actually British.

Sam, himself, was a very neat, very dapper young man of fifty-two. He had the smallish head of the quick-witted and the versatile, and this head was well-covered with a neat, gleaming cap of white hair. He was particular as to his raiment. If he were a trifle over-dressed, a thought ostentatious, the fault was due to his profession, which has a leaning that way. His teeth were good, and his fingernails were irreproachable. This was business, and Sam was very good at business.

The house was filling rapidly, booked to capacity. The orchestra, with the exception of the conductor, were in their places, making those twittering noises so dear to the heart of the professional musician, so irritating to the layman. Stringed instruments twanged, wind blared softly. The conductor was below the stage in the musicians’ room, awaiting the moment for an effective entry. The private bodyguard of the President of the Mexican Republic whisked and jingled ceaselessly up and down the aisles. The huge audience chatted, smoked, and stared at the cactus-plants, the mosaic, the gold and silver, and the beautiful night overhead. And behind the gorgeous curtain Sam Walden hopped about like a flea in a bottle. For this was the opening night of the show of shows, the spectacle supreme, “Walden’s 1935 Frivolities.”

 

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