Reign (31 page)

He prayed too that it would not be Robin he would see, Robin staring at him with dead and accusing eyes. The thought made him shiver as he moved down the hall, coming closer to where he could see into the living room, see in the dim light who was there waiting for him.

Then he rounded the corner, and saw.

It wasn't Robin.

~ * ~

(
The scene is the living room of Dennis Hamilton's suite. It is dimly lit by a single lamp. DENNIS HAMILTON stands stage right at the entrance to the hall. Beside the portrait of Dennis as the Emperor stands THE EMPEROR, dressed exactly as in the portrait. He smiles at Dennis.

Hello, Dennis. You don't know how long I've been waiting to meet you.

(
The mirror falls from Dennis's hand and shatters. They stand, looking at one another
.)

A man's soul was his own enclosed garden, nothing could obtain admittance there without his invitation and permission.

— "
Naboth's
Vineyard," E. F. Benson

(
DENNIS and THE EMPEROR are in the exact positions that ended Act I. There is a long pause.)

(
In a voice filled with fear and awe
) Who are you?

(
Smiles
) Who do you think I am?

You're not me.

I'm
part
of you. I'm something you created — out of yourself.

This isn't real. I'm imagining it. You don't exist. (
He moves toward the Emperor, a hand extended gingerly)

You won't prove it that way. I have no . . . physical existence, I admit that. (
He reaches out a hand to touch that of Dennis. Their hands pass through each other, occupying the same space
.) Do you feel anything?

No . . . yes, something . . . cold.

Sad, isn't it? Something so full of hot life as myself, and I can only be felt as cold.

What . . . are you?

Your creation. Your child, born of your performance. Born of its strength and its reality.

My
creation? How . . . how could that happen?

You created the Emperor, Dennis. On stage. Year after year, night after night, the strength of your performance formed me. You were never, as you have said to that woman who thinks she teaches acting, an
interpreter
. You were always a
creator
.

(
Confused and upset
) I don't see . . . I still don't see how such a thing . . . how you could come to be. Outside of my mind. That's where you belong — in my
mind
, nowhere else!

Perhaps I'm the first of my kind. A . . . what shall I say? A
histrion
, perhaps?

But
how
?

You became another person so many times, and so effectively, that that person became an independent entity. Me. (
He smiles. There is no trace of menace in it
)

That can't happen — there's no way that can happen. It would take more than a . . . a
performance
to bring something like . . . like you to life.

Oh, of course. Of course it took more. Do you have any idea of the power that lives in a theatre? Any conception of the emotions remaining after years and years of people viewing plays, films, becoming involved with what they see on that stage or screen?

(
Slowly understanding
) Catharsis.

Exactly! Catharsis! And it remains where it is shed, remains as what one might call energy. And the result?
Cogito, ergo sum
!

~ * ~

I have gone insane
, Dennis Hamilton thought, looking at the person, the creature, the ghost, the thing standing near him, there in his living room.

It
was
there. He saw it, he heard it, he knew he was not dreaming. He may have created it, yes, but if so, he had created it only in his mind. His fingers had slipped right through those of the thing. Wasn't that proof that it was not real?

Wasn't that proof, he thought in a miserable panic, that he was crazy?

~ * ~

(
Shaking his head sadly
) You don't believe me. You think I'm nothing but an hallucination.

(
Firmly
) Yes. Yes, that's right.

I can prove I'm not.

How?

If I'm your hallucination, I can only know what you know. Isn't that true?

Yes. That seems . . . logical. If any of this is logical.

It is. Supremely. (
He smiles
) Royally. I know the answers.

What answers?

I know why Robin died. And Tommy
Werton
. I'm sad to say I know why Tommy died too.

(
His hands tremble
) Why? Why Robin?

(
His face is wreathed with deep sadness
) She wanted to kill Ann. (
Dennis's eyes squeeze shut. He clasps his hands over his ears
.) I know. I know, it's difficult to believe. But I can see into hearts. I can see what even the finest actors, those scholars of human emotion, cannot. Robin hated Ann Deems. She took her up among the stars to kill her. She had found a pin that belonged to Ann, a pin that you had given her many years ago. She intended to drop it as Ann fell through the ceiling, and then tell people that it had come off her blouse and she had stepped down after it, not realizing the danger. But the light went on. An unforeseen accident. And Robin fell instead of her intended victim.

(
Whispering
) No . . . oh dear God, no . . .

If it will comfort you to know, she did it for love of you. (
An inarticulate cry comes from Dennis
.) She loved you very much.

(
After a moment his sobs subside
.) And Tommy . . . what about Tommy?

That, I fear, was partially my fault. It was me he saw backstage. I unintentionally distracted him. He saw me, thought I was you.

Did you . . . did you call him onto the stage?

I did, Dennis, yes. I saw that things were wrong, and I wanted only to help. I had no idea that the fire curtain would fall.

You didn't?

(
Spreading his fingers
) Could I have pulled the pin? (
He attempts to pick up one of the Tony Awards, but his hand passes through it
.) An accident. A tragic accident.

Harry . . .

Harry
Ruhl
? He was disturbed, Dennis. A simple and disturbed young man. It was terrible, but it was self-inflicted.

Do you know everything?

Only what takes place in . . . our empire. Perhaps I should say your empire. For it is yours, and since you created me I am part of it. You are my creator, therefore my god. I look to you for my well-being, my strength.

~ * ~

Dear God, what is this thing?
Dennis wondered. It spoke of
Harry's
and Robin's and Tommy's deaths with only the outward semblance of compassion. Dennis had been an actor long enough to know when someone — or something — was dissembling, and this creature was doing just that. It seemed to Dennis that the thing had no conception of sympathy or the more tender human emotions. Dennis saw pride in abundance, but little else. Could it be that it was not in the creature's nature to feel the sympathetic emotions? Could it be that self-centered?

Still, when it spoke of him as its creator, its god, Dennis heard affection there and something more. Worship, perhaps? It was blasphemous, but Dennis felt it was sincere.

~ * ~

I don't know . . . I don't know what to say. (
He gives a helpless laugh
) I don't even know what to think. Except that I'm crazy.

You are not insane. I am very real.

And if you're real, then what? What happens now? What do you do? What do I do with you?

Shelter me. Be my god. I must remain here. I can go nowhere else. What nourishes me is here. You are here.

Can . . . other people see you?

They should not. Not yet. They would not understand.

May I tell people?

(
He shrugs
) Would they believe you?

But who are you? Who? Are you
me
?

No. I am the Emperor. I am the character that you created, with all the character's emotions that you gave me.

That I gave you . . . (
Startled, suddenly realizing
) You said what nourishes you is here. Do you mean the theatre? The catharsis? Or me?

(
A pause
) Both.

You take your strength from me?

And why should I not take strength from my creator? You gave me life, so should I not draw my survival from you as well?

Strength . . . taking my strength?

(
THE EMPEROR begins to fade away, his voice fading with him
.)

Farewell, my friend. We shall be together again.

Wait, wait!

I cannot. I cannot. I am drawn away . . .

(
THE EMPEROR is gone
.)

~ * ~

Dennis stood for a long time listening, but he saw nothing more, heard no more words. When he regained the power of motion, a few steps brought him to the spot where the apparition, if such it was, had been standing.

There was nothing there. No trace of cold, no puddle of ectoplasm, no indentations in the thick pile carpet from ghostly feet.

"What in God's name. . .” Dennis said softly. Had something been there? Or had he been hallucinating? The thing had told him nothing that could not have come out of his own mind — the explanations of the deaths had all occurred to him. He supposed that even Robin's purported plot with the pin had crossed his mind. Still, it had seemed so damned
real
.

No. Not seemed. It was real. He was sure of it. He had never before had hallucinations, and his body was as drug free as anyone's could be. What he had seen he had seen, and its implications were staggering.

He had always thought that the Emperor had, in a strange way, a life of his own. Dennis had inhabited the character more than he had acted it, creating it like a tailor creates a suit of clothes that he plans to wear for a long time, building it up carefully, knowing that it would have to last.