“You can have theatricals, Martyn,” said Claire graciously. “I
think it’s rather a good idea, and we’ll have dancing in the saloon
afterwards.”
The list was revised, added to and discussed all over again.
“But who will act in the theatricals?” Mary said. “And what are you
going to act?”
“Captain Patch will write something--Oh yes, you must, or what’s the
good of having an author here at all?--and we’d better tell him just
how many people there are who can act, and then he can have the right
number of parts,” said Sallie rapidly. “And anyone who can’t act, and
wants to, can be told that there isn’t a part.”
“None of us can act to save our lives,” Amy Kendal superfluously
informed us.
“I cannot write a play,” said Bill Patch very firmly indeed. “But
we could get up something musical, if you liked, and write our own
libretto, and just set it to any tune that fits. I’ve seen that done
very successfully at short notice, and it’s all there’ll be time for,
if Lady Flower’s dance is to be three weeks from to-day.”
“Fancy your saying that you couldn’t write a play! I’m sure you could
write a play, Captain Patch,” said Mrs. Kendal amiably. “If a book, why
not a play?”
Bill Patch looked rather desperate, and said he didn’t know why not,
but he couldn’t, and Mumma remarked again, three or four times, that
she was quite sure he could easily write a play.
“Miles, why don’t you stage-manage it for them?” said Mary Ambrey.
“They’ll want someone....”
In the end, they settled it that way, after talking until nearly eight
o’clock.
The last thing I heard, as everyone took leave of us at the same
moment, was Mumma reiterating, pleasantly but steadily, her conviction
(a) that it would be difficult to get enough men, and (b) that she was
quite sure Captain Patch could easily write a play.
_Chapter Five_
Two days later, Bill Patch and Mrs. Fazackerly came to consult us about
their joint production.
“It isn’t a play,” Captain Patch said, his red hair standing up on end.
“Whatever Mrs. Kendal may think about it, I cannot write a play. But
we’ve strung something together, more or less--mostly a few songs.”
“We thought you’d know more about it than anybody else and would advise
us,” said Nancy Fazackerly prettily.
“Even Mrs. Kendal has never suggested that _I_ could write a play, my
dear.”
“But I’ve sometimes wondered whether _I_ oughtn’t to have gone in for
writing,” said Claire. “Only I haven’t had the time.”
“It’s more about the performers than the actual play that we want
advice,” explained Captain Patch. “Though even that isn’t going to be
all plain sailing. General Kendal--”
“Most kindly,” said Nancy Fazackerly.
“Most kindly,” Bill repeated, in a worried, obedient sort of way, “most
kindly turned up last night with a pair of Hessian boots.”
“Hessian boots?”
“He thought they’d make such a good stage property and that we ought to
write something that would make use of them. He really was most awfully
keen, poor old fellow, and of course it isn’t a bad idea, in its way.
Hessian boots, you know--you don’t see them nowadays.”
To this we assented.
“One could do something with a uniform, and the boots would give a
finish, as it were,” Mrs. Fazackerly suggested.
“Hessian boots, and a belt, and a busby, would give the idea of a
Russian, I thought,” Bill Patch explained. “And we thought of doing
something with that old song, ‘The Bulbul Ameer.’ You could make quite
a lot out of it, and it would be much easier to dress up to that sort
of thing than to a regular play. You remember the song I mean?”
“I brought it with me,” said Mrs. Fazackerly. And then and there she
read it aloud to us, in her pleasant, rather pathetic voice.
“The sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold,
And quite unaccustomed to fear;--
But, of all, the most reckless of life or of limb,
Was Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.
When they wanted a man to encourage the van,
Or to shout ‘hull-a-loo’ in the rear--
Or to storm a redoubt, they straightaway sent out
For Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.
“There are heroes in plenty and well-known to fame
In the ranks that are led by the Czar;
But among the most reckless of name or of fame
Was Ivan Petruski Skivah.
He could imitate Irving, play euchre or pool,
And perform on the Spanish guitar;
In fact, quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Petruski Skivah.
“One morning the Russian had shouldered his gun
And put on his most cynical sneer,
When, going down town, he happened to run
Into Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.
Said the Bulbul, ‘Young man, is your life then so dull
That you’re anxious to end your career?
For, infidel, know that you’ve trod on the toe
Of Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’
“Said the Russian, ‘My friend, your remarks in the end
Will only prove futile, I fear;
For I mean to imply that you’re going to die,
Mr. Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’
The Bulbul then drew out his trusty chibouque,
And, shouting out, ‘Allah Akbar,’
Being also intent upon slaughter, he went
For Ivan Petruski Skivah.
“When, just as the knife was ending his life--
In fact, he had shouted ‘Huzza!’--
He found himself struck by that subtle calmuck,
Bold Ivan Petruski Skivah.
There’s a grave where the wave of the Blue Danube flows,
And on it, engraven so clear,
Is, ‘Stranger, remember to pray for the soul
Of Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’
“Where the Muscovite maiden her vigil doth keep
By the light of the true lover’s star,
The name she so tenderly murmurs in sleep
Is ‘Ivan Petruski Skivah.’
The sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold
And quite unaccustomed to fear;
But, of all, the most reckless of life or of limb,
Was Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.”
“It’s not a bad tune,” said Captain Patch. “You see, someone comes
on and sings the whole thing straight off--just to put the audience
in touch with the general hang of affairs--and then, I thought, we’d
act it. This fellow Abdul, you know, full of swagger--dressed up like
a Turk--nothing easier than to dress like a Turk, on the stage--a
towel twisted round your head, and shoes turning up at the toes, and
a bill-hook or something for a scimitar, and everyone tumbles to it
directly. Well, Abdul could get quite a lot of laughs by putting on
tremendous side and all that sort of thing. Then the Russian chap--or
we could just call him Slavonic, if you think Russians are rather
a slump in the market just now--of course he’s in love with Abdul’s
girl, the Muscovite maiden. He’d have to be the hero of the piece--Ivan
Petruski Skivah--flourishing about with a sword and that kind of
thing--and in uniform--”
“The Hessian boots?”
“Exactly. The Hessian boots. A note of realism introduced at once--”
“And what about the Muscovite maiden?” said Claire.
“She’ll sing duets with Ivan Petruski, of course, and she’s easy to
dress, too. A veil over her head, and slave-bangles, and perhaps a
Yashmak. An eastern get-up is always effective, and so very economical
to arrange,” said Mrs. Fazackerly with satisfaction.
“We’re going to put in extra parts as well--chorus of Eastern maidens,
and Cossacks, and things like that. But those are the principals.”
“And how have you cast it?” I inquired.
“Sallie must be the Muscovite maiden. She’ll look sweet,” said Mrs.
Fazackerly, “and she can sing, too.”
“Will Major Ambrey take on the Bulbul Ameer?” Captain Patch asked.
Christopher was not present. We were both positive that he would refuse
the suggested honor, and we knew well, moreover, that Christopher is
no musician. I have heard him sing in church.
“You’ll have to do it yourself, Captain Patch,” said Claire. “How about
the Hessian boots?”
“We thought of Martyn. And someone will be wanted to sing the song
itself, as a kind of prologue, before the curtain goes up,” said Mrs.
Fazackerly.
I remember that she looked as much pleased and excited over their plans
as a child over a party.
“You see, that song is meant to be a sort of recurring _motif_
throughout the whole show,” Bill said. “When we’re at rather a loose
end, someone can play the refrain or sing it, and it will buck things
up at once. It’s extraordinary how pleased an audience always is with
anything that’s repeated often enough. They know where they are, I
suppose, when they recognize an old friend. And at the end, we can all
stand in a row across the stage and sing the chorus together. You know
the kind of thing--just to bring down the curtain.”
He looked just as much pleased and excited as Nancy Fazackerly did.
They were like two very nice children.
“It sounds all right,” I said. “I take it that we really want to do the
acting among ourselves, as much as possible, and entertain the rest of
the people and then all wind up with a dance.”
“Exactly,” said Claire.
“The only outside talent, as far as one can see at present, will be
Mrs. Harter,” said Bill Patch--and he was genuinely quite unconcerned
about it, too.
But I saw that Nancy Fazackerly knew well enough that Claire wasn’t
going to stand for _that_.
“Mrs. Harter?”
There was more than one note of interrogation in Claire’s way of saying
it--quite three or four.
“You remember how rippingly she sang ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’ the
other night?”
“Oh, yes, I remember that.”
“We thought of her, for the ‘Bulbul Ameer’ song at the beginning
because one really does want someone who’ll pronounce all the words
distinctly. And she’s got a good ‘carrying’ voice, if ever I heard one.”
“I daresay,” said Claire distantly.
Bill Patch looked from one to another of us, and I remembered how,
the first time I saw him, he had reminded me of a Clumber spaniel--so
young, and awkward, and eager--and now, evidently, so much puzzled as
well.
“Her voice really is a very good one,” said Mrs. Fazackerly pleadingly.
“And I’m rather sorry for her, do you know. After all, in Egypt she
must have had a very amusing time and known heaps of people--and now to
come back to Cross Loman--”
“Where she came from!” ejaculated Claire.
“I know--but that makes it harder, in a way. She’s outgrown the people
whom she saw most of when she was Diamond Ellison--and after all, she
wasn’t so very much more than a schoolgirl when she married and went
away. I think she feels a little bit stranded sometimes.”
“Where is Mr. Harter--and what is he?” Claire demanded.
“He is a solicitor--and he’s still in the East, but he may come home
this summer. I don’t think the marriage is a very happy one,” said Mrs.
Fazackerly, looking down.
I fancy that to all of us there then came a momentary vision of
crockery, propelled violently through space, after the reckless habit
that report had imputed to Mrs. Fazackerly’s excitable partner.
“It would be so very kind of you, Lady Flower, to say that we may ask
her to help with the show,” said Nancy, raising her pretty eyes to
Claire’s face, and speaking with her habitual flattering deference.
“You see, if once you gave a lead, Mrs. Harter wouldn’t feel out of
things any more.”
“And,” said Captain Patch, not quite so diplomatically, “it would be
such a shame to waste that beautiful voice.”
“Who is going to play your accompaniments--or do you rise to an
orchestra?” I interrupted.
“I can play the accompaniments,” said Mrs. Fazackerly radiantly. “It’s
all I’m good for. I have no voice and I can’t act. Which reminds
me that some of the Kendals really ought to be asked to take part,
oughtn’t they, after General Kendal has so very kindly provided those
boots?”
“Perhaps Alfred and two of the girls might do something in the chorus
without damaging it.”
“We must go and find out. And--what about Mrs. Harter?”
Claire shrugged her shoulders.
“I think it’s rather a mistake to ask her, myself. But please do
exactly as you like about it. If her voice is essential, then I suppose
she must be asked.”
“Now, what about the stage itself?”
Nancy Fazackerly was quite wise enough not to press the question of
Mrs. Harter any further, and they went off into a discussion as to the
structure and position of the stage.
I asked Claire afterwards if she really objected very much to letting
old Ellison’s daughter take part in the performance.
“She won’t expect to be asked here afterwards, if that’s what you’re
afraid of.”
“How do you know she won’t? I thought that she looked like a pushing
sort of woman, and common.”
“Do you remember how they did those portraits of her in Sallie’s game
the other day?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It struck me as odd that they’d all thought enough about her to
find it worth while--although not one of them knows her in the least
intimately.”
“As I said at the time, Miles, she has personality. I suppose I have
personality myself. It’s an indefinable sort of thing.”
We left it at that.
Mrs. Fazackerly and Captain Patch were to have a week in which to
prepare their program, and after that there was to be a general
assembly of the prospective performers.
“And you’ll preside, won’t you, to settle about parts, and then no one
will be hurt or offended,” said Mrs. Fazackerly, speaking, I fear, from
a wide past experience of the wonderful capacities of other people for
being hurt or offended on the very slightest provocation.
I asked them to hold the meeting in the library and promised to do my
best that no one should be either hurt or offended.
On the day that I was expecting them I drove down to the Mill House in
the morning to see Mary. I drive out in a low basket-carriage drawn
by a very old pony, because that is the only safe way in which I can
convey my semi-helpless person about without assistance.
She was in the garden, as usual, doing something with a trowel.
Mary never seems surprised to see me, only pleased, and she does not
stand by with an anxious frown, brightly and carefully talking about
other things while I adjust my crutches and lower myself out of the
pony carriage.
“Sallie and Martyn are rolling the tennis lawn. Isn’t it energetic of
them on such a lovely day? Let’s sit in the shade.”
There is a big beech tree on Mary’s lawn, and we sat under it and
watched the tiny little stream that runs at the bottom of the garden.
The sound of it, more than any other sound I know, always recalls to me
the summer days of childhood.
Presently I consulted Mary about the theatricals and the assignment of
the parts.
“Sallie for the heroine, of course--she can act and she can sing.
Nancy Fazackerly can’t act and can’t sing, but she’s going to play the
accompaniments for all the songs. They suggested Martyn for the hero
and Patch for the villain--dressed as a Turk. I don’t know what other
parts they’ll put in, but apparently the whole thing is perfectly
elastic and can be added to or taken away from as desired. It’s all to
be Eastern dress, more or less--as being easy to arrange. And they’re
very keen to have Mrs. Harter to sing the ‘Bulbul Ameer’ song. It’s the
keynote of the whole thing, that song.”
“What does Claire say?”
“She says they may do as they like, but she doesn’t care for the idea
very much. For one thing, she thinks Mrs. Harter--Diamond Ellison--will
feel out of her element.”
“I wonder. After all, she’s been for years in Cairo, and must have met
all sorts of people. And I’m convinced that she’s intelligent, Miles,
and probably very adaptive. Martyn says that she’s an exceptional
person altogether.”
“Does he know her?”
“No. But both my children tell me that they are natural psychologists
of a high order.”
We laughed and then Mary said:
“I sometimes wonder if it’s a mistake to have let their critical
faculties--Sallie’s especially--develop quite unchecked. She finds
people more interesting than anything else, but it’s all so very
impersonal and analytical.”
“You might divide humanity into those who put people first, those who
put things first, and those who put ideas first.”
“Which do you put first, Miles?”
(Claire would have said, “Which do I put first?”)
“People, of course. So do you. But it’s the people who put things first
who are in the majority. In the ultimate issue, they weigh what Mr.
Wemmick called portable property--things like houses, and furniture,
and money--against the personal relations, and the portable property
counts most.”
“I know. They are called practical people because they would never
postpone a business appointment on account of a child’s birthday party.
The birthday party would have to be postponed. And what about the ones
who put ideas first?”
Of course, Mary knew as well as I did--or better--what about them. But
she also knew that I like long, wandering, impersonal discussions of
the kind that I can indulge in with no one else.
I smiled at her, just to show that I knew quite well how she was
humoring me.
“The people who put ideas first are, I think fortunately, in a very
small minority. Religious enthusiasts, of course--and perhaps the few
people who really are thorough-going, matter-of-fact conventionalists.”
“You are thinking of the Kendals,” said Mary unerringly.