CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"WHAT about your play, The Pilot Bird?" ^k/ Storrow inquired of Hardy a few days y j later as they made their way up to the Beaux Arts Studios to inspect a couple of new pictures by Henri Veneur.
" Dead but not buried," was Hardy's cryptic retort.
" What do you mean by that ? "
" I mean that they've killed it for Broadway but left it presentable for a winter's run on the road. In the theatrical world, however, it's a case of aut Caesar aut nihil. And a production nowadays is a whale; if it can't get up to Broadway to breathe it can't hope to live."
" But whose fault does it seem to be? "
" I don't suppose it's the fault of any particular per- son," explained the older man. " It's the fault of a con- dition. A production's no longer a personal matter. It's something that has become institutional. But its insti- tutionalism is messed up with a taint of vagabondage, the same vagabondage that leaves it the most foolish and the most romantic business in America today."
"Why do you call it a business? "
" Because that's all it is. Only it's a business com- plicated with Woman, and that's what most of the trouble arises from. The stage, you see, is still a magnet for one type of woman, the physical type, the type intent on ex- ploiting its own beauty and charm. The mere presence of any such woman on the stage presupposes personal vanity. So it isn't primarily intelligence that you have to deal with, but a petted and petulant star and a support-
ing company who're thinking more about late suppers
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