One can't be too careful how one boasts, especially if there is the chance
of the boast being put quickly to the proof. In fact, it is better perhaps
not to boast at all.
I was sitting with a friend and a stranger in a London restaurant, having
joined their table for coffee. The stranger, on introduction, turned out to
be connected with the stage in some capacity as agent, and among his
regular clients were the managers of various big provincial theatres, for
whom he provided the leading lights of pantomime, or, as he would call it,
panto. Panto was indeed the mainstay of his business; it was even the warp
and woof of his life. He lived for panto, he thought panto, and he talked
panto. No one, according to him, had a more abysmal knowledge of principal
boys with adequate legs, principal (if that is still the word) girls with
sufficient voices, contralto fairy queens with abundant bosoms, basso demon
kings, Prince Dandinis, Widow Twankays, Ugly Sisters, and all the other
personages of this strange grease-paint mythology of ours. Listening to
him, I learned--as those who are humble in spirit may learn of all men. I
learned, for example, that Ugly Sisters are at Christmas-time always Ugly
Sisters, and very often use again the same dialogue, merely transferring
themselves from, say, Glasgow to Wigan, or from Bristol to Dublin; and this
will be their destiny until they become such very old men that not even the
kindly British public will stand it any longer. England, it seems, is full
of performers who, touring the halls from March to December, are then
claimed for panto as her own, arriving a little before Christmas not less
regularly than the turkey; and the aim of all of them is as nearly as
possible to do the next Christmas what they did last Christmas.
Not only did my new acquaintance know all these people, their capabilities
and the lowest salary that could be offered to them with any chance of
acceptance, but he was also, it seemed, beloved by them all. Between agent
and client never in the history of the world had such charming relations
subsisted as between every pro. on his books and himself.
It was then that Ella Reeve came in.
Accompanied by two expensive-looking men, whose ancestors had beyond any
doubt crossed the Red Sea with Moses, this new and glittering star, who had
but just "made good," or "got over," or "clicked" (my new acquaintance used
all these phrases indiscriminately when referring to his own Herschellian
triumphs as a watcher of the skies), walked confidently to a distant table
which was being held in reserve for her party, and drew off her gloves with
the happy anticipatory assurance of one who is about to lunch a little too
well. (All this, I should say, happened before the War. I am reminded of it
to-day by the circumstance that I have just heard of the death of the agent
whom I then met.)
The impact of the lady on this gentleman was terrific.
"Look, look!" he said. "That's Ella Reeve, one of my discoveries. She was
principal boy at Blackpool two years ago. I put her there. She got fifteen
pounds a week, and to-day she gets two hundred. I spotted her in a chorus,
asked her to call and see me, and this is the result. I made her. There's
nothing she wouldn't do for me, she's so grateful. If she knew I was in the
room she'd be over here in a jiffy."
Having told us all this, he, being a very normal man, told it again, all
the while craning his neck in the hope that his old client (she had now, it
seemed, passed out of his hands, having forsaken panto for London and
revue) might catch sight of his dear face. But she was far too much
occupied either with the lobster on her plate or with the yellow fluid,
strange to me, that moved restlessly in a long-stemmed shallow glass at her
side.
And then, being, as I say, not in any way an eccentric or exorbitant
character, the agent told it us a third time, with a digression here and
there as to the deep friendships that members of his profession could form
and cement if only they were decent fellows and not mere money-grubbing
machines out for nothing but their commission. "That's what the wise man
does," he concluded; "he makes real friends with his clients, such as I did
with Ella Reeve. The result is we never had any hitches, and there's
nothing she wouldn't do for me. She's a darling!"
Getting a little tired of this, but obviously anything but unwilling to
shake the new star's slender hand and listen to the vivacious flow of
speech from such attractive lips, my friend said at last, "Well, as you and
she are such pals, and as she has only to know that you are here to jump
over the tables to get to you, why not send your card to her?"
The agent agreed, and we watched the waiter threading his way among the
tables towards that one at which the new and grateful star was seated and
hand the card to her.
The end of this story is so tragic that I should prefer not to tell it.
Ella Reeve took the card, read it, laid it down, and resumed conversation
with her friends. She did not even glance in our direction.
I felt sorry for the agent, whose mortification was very real, though he
made a brave effort to carry it off; and now that he is dead I feel
sorrier. As for Ella Reeve (which is not really her name, but one which
with great ingenuity I devised for her from the French: thus, _Elle
arrive_) I often see her, under her true style, in her triumphs, and I
always wonder whether her treatment of the agent, or his assurance of her
dependence on his cordiality, represents more nearly the truth. She looks
such a good sort. Some day, when the War is over, I must acquire a shiny
tall hat and a glossy shirt front and a youthful manner and get someone to
introduce me, and then, bit by bit, extract the truth.
Meanwhile the fact remains that it is dangerous to boast.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Tommy (back from Blighty)_. "YUS, I GRANT YER A BIT O'
LEAVE'S ALL RIGHT. BUT IT'S AWFUL DEPRESSIN', TOO, AT HOME--NOTHIN' BUT
WAR--WAR! IT GIVES YER THE FAIR 'UMP."]
* * * * *
"JAPANESE POLITICS.