Dramatis Personae.
Captain Harold Vansittart Maltravers, V.C. Tracey.
General Sir Henry Champernowne, K.C.B. Blades.
A Policeman. Briggs.
Miss Sophia Flapperkin. Williams.
Scene: Trafalgar Square. Time: The Present.
_GOD SAVE THE KING._
Booking Office: Mitchell.
Well, that was the programme, and, seeing the front seats were only half
a crown, there didn't seem much chance of anybody not getting their
money's worth.
I could say a great deal about the rehearsals, which were very
difficult, owing to the question of scenery; and finally, after many
suggestions, we decided merely to have wings, and leave the rest to the
imagination, because we couldn't get within miles of a court in Venice,
and Trafalgar Square was equally out of the question. And Percy minor
said that really classy stage managers, like Granville Barker, relied
less and less on scenery, and that the very highest art was to go back
to Elizabethan times, and just stick up what the scene was on a curtain;
and if people didn't like it, they could do the other thing. So we went
back to Elizabethan times. But we had a professional man from Plymouth
to make us up for Shakespeare, and he did it professionally, and we were
rather dazzled ourselves at what we looked like on the night. Seen
close, you're awful, but, of course, it's all right from the front.
The dresses for Shakespeare were also professional, and we had help, for
without the matron and Nelly Dunston and Minnie Dunston, and a maid or
two, the dresses would not have fitted, and so caused derision. But
they did well, and we looked very realistic, though my Jewish gaberdine
was too long to the last. However, nobody noticed, though naturally
they did notice when Antonio's beard carried away, and it spoilt the
pathos, because some fools laughed, instead of taking no notice, as any
decent chaps would have.
Well, of course, the excitement was to see how the half-crown seats went
off at Tomson's, and they weren't gone in a moment, by any means. You
could book both half-crowners and eighteen-pennies, which came next, and
people put off their booking a good deal. But when the programme was
out, the booking improved, and five people booked in one day. It was
rather interesting to hear who had booked, and Mitchell was allowed to
go to the shop every morning after school to know how things were going.
Sir Neville Carew, from the Manor House, took five half-crown seats in
the front row, and Dr. Dunston himself took the next five. This news,
we greeted with mingled feelings, yet, as Mitchell pointed out, he might
have had them for nothing, which was true. The masters all took
half-crown seats dotted about the big hall, and when Briggs asked Brown
why they had done this, instead of sitting together, Brown said: "To
applaud your efforts, Briggs, and suggest a consensus of opinion if we
can." As a matter of fact, we didn't want their wretched applause when
the time came, for we got plenty without it.
The most sensational person to take a half-crown seat was old Black,
from next door. He had always been our greatest enemy, and hated us,
and he never gave anything back that went over his wall, and made us pay
instantly if we did any damage, or broke a pane of glass, or anything;
yet there he was. He sat in the second row, and not a muscle moved from
first to last, and he never clapped once. Yet, extraordinary to say,
the most remarkable thing about the whole performance had to do with old
Black, though the amazing affair didn't come out till next morning.
Mitchell calculated that, if every seat was taken, we should clear
thirty-four pounds odd, and he rather hoped the programmes would bring
it up to thirty-six. From that, however, had to be subtracted the cost
of the dresses and the professional man from Plymouth, and also the cost
of the programmes and the piano man. It looked as if we should be good
for a clear thirty pounds; but only if the house was full.
Happy to relate, it was, and many people who did not book at all, came
and took their tickets at the door, and the one bob part was packed. In
fact, a good many stood all through, including those interested in
Merivale in humble ways, such as the tuck-woman and the ground-man and
the drill-sergeant, and many other such-like people. When, therefore,
after the interval for refreshments, Dr. Dunston got up and said we had
taken thirty-seven pounds four shillings, there was great cheering, and
most did not hide their surprise.
A reporter came from _The Merivale Trumpet_ and Mitchell saw that he had
plenty of refreshments for nothing, because this is expected by
reporters, and much depends on it. He ate and drank well, so we
naturally hoped for a column or two about the show; but the cur wrote a
most feeble account in three inches of type, and gave all the praise to
Dr. Dunston, so I need not repeat what he said.
The truth was as follows, and I shall take the programme by its items,
and be perfectly fair about it. I won't pretend everything went off as
well as we hoped, and some of the chaps didn't come off at all; but, on
the other hand, many did, and the failures also got a friendly greeting.
And even if you make a person laugh quite differently from what you
expected, it's better than if he doesn't laugh at all. Besides, we had
to remember that everybody had paid solid cash, so it wasn't like a free
show, where people have got to be pleased, or pretend to be. Because,
when you have paid your money, you are free to display your feelings;
and if people in a paying audience are such utter bounders as to laugh
in the wrong places, there's no law against it, and the performers must
jolly well stick it as best they can.
Well, of course, Percy minimus was a certainty, and the start was
excellent. In fact, some people wanted to encore him; but this did not
happen--though he would have sung again--because the live rabbit which
Abbott had borrowed from Bellamy for his illusions broke loose and
dashed on to the platform. So when the audience expected Percy back,
instead there appeared a large, lop-eared white rabbit with a brown
behind. It looked, of course, as if Abbott had already begun to
conjure, and, in fact, had turned Percy into a lop-eared rabbit.
Anyway, the people were so much interested that they stopped encoring
Percy, and seemed inclined to encore the bewildered rabbit. Then Abbott
appeared and caught the rabbit, which had rather ruined his show by
appearing in this way; and Vernon and Montgomery, who were his
assistants, brought on the magic table, with various objects arranged
upon it for the tricks. Unfortunately, Abbott was very nervous, which is
a most dangerous thing for a conjuror to be, and tricks which he would
have done to perfection during school hours, or in the home circle, so
to say, got fairly mucked up before the paying audience. He put on an
appearance of great ease, but he couldn't manage his voice, and he
forgot his "patter," and he also forgot how to palm, and kept dropping
secret things at awkward moments, and making footling jokes to hide his
confusion. The people were frightfully kind and patient, and that made
him worse. I believe, if they had hissed, it might have bucked him up.
He forced a card, as he thought, on old Black, and after messing about
with a pistol and an orange and a silk handkerchief and some unseen
contrivances, he made the ace of spades appear in a bouquet of imitation
flowers, and then challenged old Black to show his card, which he did
do, and it unfortunately turned out to be the four of hearts. This
fairly broke Abbott, and when it came to bringing the lop-eared rabbit
out of a borrowed hat, every soul in that paying audience saw him put it
in first. It is true he tried to conceal it in a mass of other things
under a huge flag, supposed to be the Union Jack; but the rabbit, who
had never been conjured with before, and hated it, kicked violently and
defied concealment, so to say. However, Abbott got a lot of trick
flowers and vegetables and about half a mile of yellow ribbon into the
hat at the same time as the rabbit, and the audience had not seen him do
this, so they were slightly mystified, and applauded in a weary sort of
way. He finished up by bringing a bowl of goldfish out of a dice with
white spots on it, and, though there was no great deception, it passed
off safely for the goldfish. Then Abbott bowed and cleared out; and,
thanks to Fortescue, who is fond of Abbott, and said "Bravo!" and tried
to work up some applause, there was no absolute blank when he had done.
But Montgomery and Vernon, who had to clear up the debris afterwards,
got one of the best laughs of the night, because they became fearfully
entangled in the yellow ribbon, and thoughtless people were a good deal
amused to see it.
Then came Rice and Bassett in shorts, with a new pair of boxing gloves.
A chair was put in each corner of the stage, and the seconds stood by
the chairs. It was all pure science, but only a few chaps at the back
appreciated them, and when, as bad luck would have it, Rice tapped
Bassett's ruby in the first round, the women part of the audience
gurgled, and gave little yelps and screams. It was nothing, but
evidently appeared strange and dreadful to them; so the Doctor stopped
the exhibition, and that item can be put down as an utter failure.
Perhaps it was a silly thing to have arranged for a mixed audience; but
we had to think of Rice's feelings, and we also knew that scores of
countesses and duchesses go to see Carpentier and Wells, and such like
in real fights, so we little dreamed anybody would squirm at a harmless
exhibition bout that wouldn't have shaken a flea. But it was so, and
consequently the glee singers were a great relief, and while they
warbled their simple lays, the female part of the audience recovered.
Of course, we Thespians did not see any of these things, as we were all
making up for the great Trial Scene.
Forrester got fair applause for Fortescue's fine poem, but nothing
special. As a matter of fact, he forgot the third verse, which was the
best, and doubtless Fortescue felt very sick about it; but he was
powerless to do anything, though he never much liked Forrester after.
Then came the grand item, and it was good in every way, and went very
smoothly till just the end. Of course, I can't say anything about my
rendition of Shylock--in fact, I didn't feel I had gripped the audience
in the least--but chaps told me you might have heard a pin drop, and
nobody recognized me who knew me, and many of the people in the audience
thought it was one of the masters, and not a boy at all. Pegram rather
overacted the Duke, which is a part that merely wants stateliness, and
no acting; but he would act, and so forgot his words and hung us up once
or twice. In fact, Pegram was not good; but Antonio, by Saunders, was a
very thoughtful performance, and so was Bassanio, by Preston. Percy
minor certainly came off as Gratiano, and unfortunately he acted so
jolly well that, in one of his fearful scores off me, I forgot the
dignified pathos of Shylock, and laughed. It was a new reading, in a
way, but I didn't mean to laugh, and it did a lot of harm, because after
that the audience wouldn't take me seriously, though before, I believe,
most of them had. It spoiled the illusion of the scene. Portia, in the
hands of Williams, was most beautiful to see, but, from the art point of
view, awful. He got out his words, however, and just at the end, before
my exit, Minnie Dunston, who had plotted it with him in secret, threw
him a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, and the fool picked it up and
said out loud: "Thank you, Minnie!" Of course, after that, my exit went
for nothing, and when it was over, I punched his head behind the scenes,
while in front people were laughing themselves silly. We got two calls,
and it shows what a force the drama really is, because in the second
half of the programme nobody cared a button about such excellent things
as Percy minor's comic song; and though Towler and Cornwallis were
mildly applauded, it was only because they happened to be still alive
and not dead; and the lightning calculations of Nicholas didn't even
tempt many men to come away from the refreshments. I dare say many of
them were very poor, and had to make so many lightning calculations
themselves, owing to the War, that they weren't specially interested in
what Nicholas could do. But for Tracey's play they all came, and such
applause was never heard within the walls of Merivale; which shows that
the drama still holds its own. The idea of "The White Feather" was
certainly very original, and the dialogue very satirical. As the girl
with the white feathers, Williams appeared again--in a dress lent him by
Minnie Dunston. This was too small in some places and too big in
others; but thanks to a huge female hat and a wig of golden hair,
Williams made a very fair flapper, though inches too tall for such a
creature. He gave a feather to Captain Maltravers, V.C., from
Gallipoli, who was in mufti; and Tracey, with an eyeglass--which he
manages fairly well--and a moustache, was frightfully satirical at the
flapper's expense, and every point he made went with a roar. Then the
flapper stuck a white feather into the frock-coat of General Sir
Champernowne--also in mufti--and he was not satirical, but got into a
frightful rage, and gave up the flapper to a policeman. She cried and
begged for pardon; and then the V.C. returned, and saved her from the
General and the policeman, and promised to marry her after the War.
The house was fairly convulsed, and it was really jolly true to
nature--so much so that the pianist almost forgot "God Save the King"
when all was over. For though a professional, and well used to
entertainments, he laughed as much as anybody.
Then the people "came like shadows and so departed," in the words of the
immortal Bard; and not until next day did the final stupendous thing
happen with old Black. He looked over the playground wall just before
dinner, as he often did, to make a beast of himself about something,
and, seeing me and Weston and another chap or two kicking about a
football, he said to me: "Are you the boy Thwaites?" And I said I was.