TO draw a veil over the first act of the “Lady of Laxton” is the part
of mercy. Speaking out of a long and therefore chequered theatrical
experience, Messrs. Garden and Montagu Jupp quite agreed with one
another that it was absolutely unique. They had never witnessed
anything like it. From first to last not a word of Lady Elfreda’s
performance was audible, a fact which threw into uncanny relief Sir
Toby Philpot’s robust interpretation of the _beau rôle_. The best
friend of the worst enemy of the little man had never accused him of
being inaudible on any occasion. And now feeling the entire fortunes of
the play rested wholly upon himself, he gave rein to his amazing vocal
powers. Thus the joint efforts of the hero and the heroine achieved a
result never likely to be forgotten by those who were present.
At first the audience did its best to bear up. The polite public in
the stalls sat silent and motionless, but it soon became clear that
the less polite public in other parts of the house was not going to
behave with equal fortitude. Ominous coughs began to arise. A wag in
hospital blue at the back requested Cuthbert to give the girl a chance.
Catcalls followed. Then came boos, cheers and counter cheers. Finally
the curtain descended with a remarkable abruptness which, however, was
a real relief to everybody.
Girlie returned to the improvised green room in a state of collapse.
Suddenly her overdriven nerves gave way. To the consternation of the
other members of the cast, whose cup was already full, she uttered a
kind of howl and broke into hysterical weeping. No one had power to
pacify her. For once even the art and the tact of Mr. Montagu Jupp were
at fault. Pikey, grim and reluctant, was summoned from the audience,
but the appearance of the maid upon the scene seemed to increase, if
anything, the leading lady’s distress.
It was clear, of course, that the play was at an end. At least, it was
clear to all except the author of the piece. Even now, in spite of
all that had happened, the valiant Sir Toby declined to admit defeat.
He boldly proposed to carry on. In the second act Lady Elfreda’s part
could be read by Mrs. Minever.
“Be sugared to that, my boy,” said Mr. Montagu Jupp.
Even now, in spite of a series of suppressed sobs from the green room
sofa, the still undefeated Sir Toby showed signs of a fight. But the
firmness of Montagu’s veto verged upon brutal candor. “They’ll never
stand another act of you, my son,” said the great man in a Napoleonic
aside.
“Let alone of your so-called play,” said the equally candid Garden.
“Don’t you recognize ‘the bird’ when you hear it, you little ass?”
“’Twas Lady Elfreda let the whole thing down,” the little man persisted.
“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, my boy,” said the genial Montagu.
“But I think myself, if we are going to carry on, that piano yonder had
better be moved on to the stage and if they’ll stand for it I’ll give
them a few selections from my refined musical entertainment.”
“The very thing, Juppy.” Garden laughed and then he winked at various
members of the company. But it was seen at once that the great man,
inimitable in resource, had found a possible way out.
All the same, there was one exception to the general chorus of
approval. The author of the “Lady of Laxton” lifted up his voice in a
loud wail of protest. “But the second act is mag-nif-i-cent, simply
mag-nif-i-cent.”
“Even if it’s as good as ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ it will
not be played, my son,” said Garden with grim finality. “Not on this
occasion.”
While the yellow chrysanthemum lady did her best to calm Lady Elfreda’s
shattered nerves, the grand piano was trundled forth into the middle of
the proscenium, the curtain went up, and notwithstanding incipient boos
and catcalls from the obscurer parts of the house, Mr. Jupp announced
that owing to the sudden indisposition of Lady Elfreda Catkin, the
remainder of the program would take the form of a refined musical
entertainment. Thereupon the great man, beaming with good humor, sat
down at the piano, struck a chord, slewed round on the piano stool to
face the already much relieved audience, and said, “Ladies and gemmen,
the first item on the program is that old but touching ballad, ‘Down
Went Maginty to the Bottom of the Sea.’”
Corney Grain himself could hardly have bettered Montagu’s performance.
The effect was magical, not merely upon the turbulent spirits at the
back of the hall, but also upon the more patient sufferers in the more
expensive seats. Not only did Montagu render the ditty in an inimitable
manner, but he also induced the warriors in khaki and hospital blue to
join in the chorus.
As a matter of fact very little in the way of inducement was needed.
The lines:
I feel sure he must be wet,
For they haven’t found him yet.
were given with enormous gusto.
The change which came over the audience was quite remarkable. In the
reaction from the boredom of the first act of Sir Toby’s comedy, “the
house” began to bubble with enthusiasm. The broad human appeal of Mr.
Jupp was irresistible. “Down Went Maginty” was so rapturously received
that he had no compunction about following with “Oh, Dem Golden
Slippers,” which went equally well and “I Fear No Foe in Swan Pyjamas.”
In fact, “the old Pony Moore touch” was simply invaluable. Even the
stern old dowagers whose brothers “had been at Eton with the dear
Duke” were enchanted. For a full three-quarters of an hour Mr. Jupp
was kept hard at it with songs and patter, jokes and conjuring tricks.
No man could have worked more heroically in the cause of charity. The
situation was saved.