The great event came about because Mrs. Raeburn, in return for similar
favors in the past, went to superintend the behavior of pasty-faced
Claude and Percy so that her sister could spend a fortnight with a
brother-in-law lately elected to the Urban Council of an unimportant
town in Suffolk. So, with some misgivings on the side of his wife,
Charlie was left in charge of 17 Hagworth Street.
One day Mr. Vergoe came downstairs to ask his landlord if he would let
Jenny and Alfie and Edie accompany him to the pantomime of "Aladdin" at
the Grand Theater. Charlie saw no harm in it, and the party was
arranged. It appeared that Miss Lilli Vergoe had been temporarily
released from the second line of girls at the Orient Theater of
Varieties in order to make one of a quartette of acrobatic dancers in
the pantomime. Under the circumstances, her grandfather considered
himself bound to attend at least one performance, although he felt
rather like a mute at his own obsequies.
It was a clear winter's evening when they set out, a rosy-cheeked,
chattering, skipping party. Mr. Vergoe, wrapped in a muffler almost as
wide as a curtain, walked in the middle. Jenny held his hand. Edie
jigged on the inside, and Alfie, to whom had been intrusted the great
responsibility of the tickets, walked along the extreme edge of the
curb, occasionally jolting down with excitement into the frozen gutter.
They hurried along the wide raised pavement that led up to the theater.
They hurried past the golden windows of shops still gay with the
aftermath of Christmas. They hurried faster and faster till presently
the great front of the theater appeared in sight, when they all huddled
together for a wild dash across the crowded thoroughfare. Ragged boys
accosted them, trying to sell old programmes. Knowing men inquired if
they wanted the shortest way to the pit.
"No, thank you," said Mr. Vergoe proudly. "We have seats in the dress
circle."
The knowing men looked very respectful and moved aside from the welded
plutocracy of Edie, Alfie, Jenny and Mr. Vergoe. Fat women with baskets
of fat oranges tried to tempt them by offering three at once, but Mr.
Vergoe declined. Oranges would not be polite in the dress circle.
In the vestibule Alfie was commanded to produce the tickets. There was a
terrible moment of suspense while Alfie, nearly as crimson as the plush
all around him, dug down into one pocket after another. Were the tickets
lost? Edie and Jenny looked daggers. No; there they were: Row A, numbers
7, 8, 9, and 10. "Upstairs, please," said a magnificent gentleman in
black and gold. "This way, please," said a fuzzy-haired attendant. The
children walked over the thick carpet in awed silence. A glass door
swung open. They were in the auditorium of the Grand Theater, Islington,
in the very front row, by all that was fortunate; and, having bestowed
their hats and coats beneath the elegant and comfortable tip-up chairs,
they hung over the red-plush ledge of the circle and gazed down into
what seemed the whole of the population of London. The orchestra had not
yet come in. Down in the pit the people were laughing and talking. Up in
the gallery they were laughing and talking. Babies were crying; mothers
were comforting them. Everybody down below seemed to be eating oranges
or buns or chocolate. Alfie let his programme flutter down, and Jenny
nearly burst into tears because she thought they would all be turned out
of the theater.
The whole of the vast audience was there for enjoyment. Enjoyment was in
the air like a great thrill of electricity. What could be more
magnificent than the huge drop curtain, with its rich landscape and
lightly clothed inhabitants? What could be more exciting than the
entrance, one by one, of the amazingly self-possessed musicians?
The orchestra was tuning up. The conductor appeared to the welcoming
taps of fiddle-bows. One breathless moment he held aloft his baton and
looked round at his attentive company, then altogether the fiddles and
the drums and the flutes and the cornets, the groaning double-bass and
the 'cello and the clarinets and the funny little piccolo and the big
bassoon and the complicated French horns and the trombones and the
triangle (perhaps the best-enjoyed instrument of all) and the stupendous
cymbals started off with the overture of the Christmas pantomime of the
Grand Theater, Islington.
Could it be borne, this enthusiastic overture? Was it not almost too
much for children, this lilting announcement of mirth and beauty? Would
not Jenny presently fall head-foremost into the pit? Would not Alfie be
bound to break the seat by his perpetual leaps into the air? Would not
Edie explode in her anxiety to correct Jenny, devour bull's-eyes and see
more of a mysterious figure that kept peering through a little square
hole in the corner of the proscenium?
The orchestra stopped for a moment. A bell had rung, shrill and pregnant
with great events. Green lights appeared, and red lights: there was
hardly a sound in the house. Was anything the matter?
"They're just ringing up," said Mr. Vergoe.
Slowly the rich landscape and lightly clothed inhabitants vanished into
the roof.
"Oh!" exclaimed Jenny.
"Hush!" whispered Edie.
"My Gosh!" said Alfie.
A weird melody began. Demons leaped maliciously round a caldron. Green
demons and red demons danced with pitchforks. The caldron bubbled and
steamed. There was a crash from the cymbals. A figure sprang from the
caldron, alighting on the board with a loud "ha-ha." Evil deeds were
afoot, and desperate dialogue of good and ill.
The scene changed to a Chinese market-place. There were comic policemen,
comic laundrywomen. There was the Princess Balroubadour in a palanquin
more beautiful than the very best lampshade of the Hagworth Street
parlor. There was the splendidly debonair Aladdin. There was the
excruciatingly funny Widow Twankey. There was the Emperor with bass
voice and mustaches trailing to the ground to be continually trodden on
by humorists of every size and sort.
It would be impossible to relate every scene. It was like existence in a
precious stone, so much sparkle and color was everywhere. The cave was
wonderful. The journey to the Enchanted Palace through Cloudland was
amazing. Then there were gilded tables, heaped with gigantic fruits,
that rose from the very ground itself. There was the devilishly cunning
Abanazar. There were songs and dances and tinsel and movement and
jingles and processions and laughter and gongs and lanterns and painted
umbrellas and magic doors and an exhaustingly funny bathing scene with
real water. There was the active and slippery Genius of the Lamp, the
lithe and agile Genius of the Ring, who ran right round the ledge of the
circle and slid down a golden pillar back on to the stage amid thunders
of applause.
To Jenny, perhaps the most real excitement of all was the appearance of
her darling Lilli, first in gold and blue, and then in white, and then
in black, and finally in a dress that must have been stolen from the
very heart of a rainbow, such scintillating streams of color flickered
and gleamed and radiated from its silken folds.
How gloriously golden looked her hair, how splendidly crimson her lips,
how nobly brilliant were her eyes. And how she danced, first on one leg,
then on the other; then upside down and inside out, and over one girl
and under another. How the people clapped her and how pleased she
looked, and how Jenny waved to her till Alfie and Edie simultaneously
suppressed such an uncontrolled and conspicuous display of feelings.
Then there was the transformation scene, which actually surpassed all
that had gone before, with its bouquets of giant roses turning into
fairies, with its clouds and lace and golden rocks and jewels and silver
trees and view of magic oceans and snowy mountains and gaudy birds.
Suddenly crimson lights flared. There was a jovial shout from somewhere,
and "Here we are again!" cried Joey, as round and round to "Ring a ring
o' roses" galloped Clown and Pantaloon and Harlequin and Columbine.
Jenny looked shyly up into Mr. Vergoe's face and could just see tears
glittering in his eyes.
Down came the front cloth of the harlequinade with shops and mischievous
boys and everlastingly mocked policemen and absent-minded nursemaids and
swaggering soldiers. Inspiring were the feats achieved by the Clown,
wild were the transformations and substitutions effected by the trim and
ubiquitous Harlequin. But what Jenny loved most were the fairy entrances
of Columbine, as, like a pink feather, she danced before the footlights
and in and out of the shops. Oh, to be a Columbine, she thought, to
dance in silver and pink down Hagworth Street with a thousand eyes to
admire her, a thousand hands to acclaim the beautiful vision.
It came to an end, the pantomime of Aladdin. It came to an end with the
Clown's shower of crackers. Triumph of triumphs, Jenny actually caught
one.
"You and me will pull it," she whispered to Mr. Vergoe, clasping his
hand in childish love.
But it came to an end, the pantomime of Aladdin; and home they went
again to Hagworth Street. Home they went, all three children's hearts
afire with the potential magic of every street corner. Home they went,
talking and laughing and interrupting and imitating and recalling, while
Mr. Vergoe thought of old days. How quiet and dark Hagworth Street
seemed when they reached it.
But it was very delightful to rush in past Ruby and turn somersaults
all the way to the kitchen. It was very delightful to stand in a knot
round their father and tell him the whole story and recount each
separate splendor, while he and Mr. Vergoe sipped a glass of Mr.
Vergoe's warm whisky with a slice of lemon added. It was good fun to
disconcert Ruby by tripping her up. It was fine to seize the poker and
chase her all round the kitchen.
The bedtime of this never-to-be-forgotten evening came at last. Jenny
and Edie lay awake and traced in the ceiling shadows startling
similarities to the action of the harlequinade. Edie fell asleep, but
Jenny still lay awake, her heart going pitter-pat with a big resolve,
her breath coming in little gasps with the birth of a new ambition. She
must go on the stage. She must dance for all the world to gaze at her.
She would. She would. She must. What a world it was, this wonderful
world of the stage--an existence of color and scent and movement and
admiration.
The oilcloth of Hagworth Street seemed more than usually cold and dreary
on the following day. Alfie, too, was in a very despondent mood, having
fallen deeply in love with Miss Letty Lightbody, who had played the part
of Pekoe, Aladdin's friend and confidant. An air of staleness permeated
everything for a week. Then Mrs. Raeburn came back from Barnsbury, and
Jenny raised the question of going on the stage.
The former was very angry with her husband for allowing the visit to the
pantomime. Mr. Vergoe tried to take the blame, but Mrs. Raeburn was
determined the brunt of the storm should fall on Charlie. Jenny was
ordered to give up all ideas of the stage. Schooltime came round again,
and the would-be dancer behaved more atrociously than ever. She was the
despair of her mistresses, and at home she would sit by the fire
sulking. She began to grow thin, and her mother began to wonder whether,
after all, it would not be wiser to let her have her own way. She went
upstairs to consult Mr. Vergoe.
"You'll make a big mistake," he assured her, "if you keep her from what
she's set her heart on, so to speak. She has it in her, too. A proper
little dancer she'll make."
Mrs. Raeburn was still loath to give in. She had a dread of putting
temptation in the child's path. She did not know how to decide, while
Jenny continued to sulk, to be more and more unmanageable, to fret and
pine and grow thinner and thinner.
"Where could she go and learn this dancing?" the bewildered mother
asked.
"Madame Aldavini's," said the old clown. "That's where my granddaughter
learned."
It was a profession, after all, thought Mrs. Raeburn. What else would
Jenny do? Go into service? Somehow she could not picture her in a
parlormaid's cap and apron. Well, why not the stage, if it had got to
be? She discussed the project with her sister Mabel, who was horrified.
"A ballet-girl? Are you mad, Florence? Why, what a disgrace. Whatever
would Bill say? An actress? Better put her on the streets at once."
Mrs. Raeburn could not make up her mind.
"If any daughter of yours goes play-acting," went on Mrs. Purkiss, "I
can't allow her to come to tea with my Percy and my Claude any more, and
that's all about it."
"Jenny doesn't think going to tea with her cousins anything to wave
flags over."
"Pig-headed, that's what you are, Florence. All the years you've been a
sister of mine, I've known you for a pig-headed woman. It doesn't matter
whether you're ill or well, right or wrong, no one mustn't advise you.
That's how you come to marry Charlie."
The opposition of Mrs. Purkiss inclined her sister to give way before
Jenny's desire. It only needed a little more family interference, and
the child would be taken straight off to Madame Aldavini's School for
Dancing.
Miss Horner supplied it; for, two or three days after, a letter came
from Clapton, written in a quavering hand crossed and recrossed on thin,
crackling paper, deeply edged in black.
CARMINIA HOUSE,
February 20th.
DEAR FLORENCE,
My niece Mabel writes to tell us you intend to make your little
girl an actress. This news has been a great shock to me. You must
not forget that she is a granddaughter of Frederick Horner, the
Chymist. She must not be a harlot given over to paint and powder.
God is jealous of the safety of His lambs. This plan of dancing is
a snare of Satan. You should read the Word, my dear niece. You will
read of young maidens who danced before the Ark of the Covenant in
the joy of the Lord, but that is not to say your little girl should
dance for lewdness and gold when she might be singing the sweet
songs of Salvation and joining in the holy mirth of the Children of
Israel. If you had let us adopt her, this desire would not have
come. We do not let the Devil into our house. You will be the cause
of my death, niece, with your wicked intentions. I am an old woman
very near to Emmanuel. This great sin must not be.
Your loving aunt,
ALICE HORNER.
P. S.--I am in bed, but with the warmer weather I shall come to see
you, my dear niece, and warn you again.--A. H.
"Good thing she is in bed," commented Mrs. Raeburn, as she finished
reading her aunt's letter.
"What's all this about Jenny going for a dancer?" asked Charlie that
evening.
"Whatever has it got to do with you, I should like to know?" said his
wife.
"Well, I am her father, when all's said and done. Aren't I?"
"And a nice example to a child. I suppose somebody's got to look after
you when I die."
"I expect the old man will die first. I've been feeling very poorly this
year."
"First I've heard of it."
"Why, only last night my finger was hurting something chronic."
"Show me."
"Be careful." Mr. Raeburn offered the sick finger for his wife's
inspection.
"I can't see nothing."
"There, blessed if I'm not showing of you the wrong hand."
"You must have been shocking bad."
"Well, it's better now."
"That's enough of you and your fingers. Why shouldn't Jenny be a
dancer?" persisted Mrs. Raeburn.
"Don't go blaring it all over the neighborhood, anyhow, and don't give
me the blame for it if anything goes wrong."
"Look here, Charlie, when I married you, I hadn't got nothing better to
do, had I?"
Charlie shook his head in sarcastic astonishment.
"Yes," went on Mrs. Raeburn. "You can wag your great, silly head, but
I'm not going to have my Jenny marrying _any_body. She's going to be
able to say, 'No, thank you,' to a sight of young chaps. And if I can't
look after her sharp when she's at the theater, I can't look after her
anywhere else, that's very certain."
"Well, I call it rank nonsense--rank nonsense, that's what I call it,
and don't you turn round on me and say I put it into her head. What
theater's she going to?"
"You silly man, she's got to learn first."
"Learn what?"
"Learn dancing--at a school."
"Learn dancing? If she's got to learn dancing, what's the sense in her
going for an actress?"
"You had to learn carpentering, didn't you?"
"Of course, but that's very different to dancing. Anybody can
dance--some better than others; but _learn_ dancing--well, there, the
ideas some women gets in their heads, it's against all nature."
"Have you finished? Because I got my washing to see to. You go and talk
it over at the 'Arms.' I reckon they've got more patience than me."
Jenny was in bed when her mother told her she should become a pupil of
Madame Aldavini.
"Aren't you glad?" she asked, as her daughter made no observation.
"Yes; it's all right," said Jenny, coldly it seemed.
"You are a comical child."
"Shall I go to-morrow?"
"We'll see."
Mrs. Raeburn thought to herself, as she left the room, how strange
children were; and, having settled Jenny's future, she began to worry
about May, who was just then showing symptoms of a weak spine, and lay
awake thinking of her children half the night.