Of the following fortnight I find it difficult to write coherently. I
found myself in a steady whirl of receptions, luncheons, dinners,
teas, and assemblies of rather a pretentious character, at the greater
number of which I was obliged to appear as the guest of honour. It
began with the reception of Mrs. Floud, at which I may be said to have
made my first formal bow to the smarter element of Red Gap, followed
by the dinner of the Mrs. Ballard, with whom I had formed acquaintance
on that first memorable evening.
I was during this time like a babe at blind play with a set of chess
men, not knowing king from pawn nor one rule of the game. Senator
Floud--who was but a member of their provincial assembly, I
discovered--sought an early opportunity to felicitate me on my changed
estate, though he seemed not a little amused by it.
“Good work!” he said. “You know I was afraid our having an English
valet would put me in bad with the voters this fall. They’re already
saying I wear silk stockings since I’ve been abroad. My wife did buy
me six pair, but I’ve never worn any. Shows how people talk, though.
And even now they’ll probably say I’m making up to the British army.
But it’s better than having a valet in the house. The plain people
would never stand my having a valet and I know it.”
I thought this most remarkable, that his constituency should resent
his having proper house service. American politics were, then, more
debased than even we of England had dreamed.
“Good work!” he said again. “And say, take out your papers--become one
of us. Be a citizen. Nothing better than an American citizen on God’s
green earth. Read the Declaration of Independence. Here----” From a
bookcase at his hand he reached me a volume. “Read and reflect, my
man! Become a citizen of a country where true worth has always its
chance and one may hope to climb to any heights whatsoever.” Quite
like an advertisement he talked, but I read their so-called
Declaration, finding it snarky in the extreme and with no end of silly
rot about equality. In no way at all did it solve the problems by
which I had been so suddenly confronted.
Social lines in the town seemed to have been drawn by no rule
whatever. There were actually tradesmen who seemed to matter
enormously; on the other hand, there were those of undoubted
qualifications, like Mrs. Pettengill, for example, and Cousin Egbert,
who deliberately chose not to matter, and mingled as freely with the
Bohemian set as they did with the county families. Thus one could
never be quite certain whom one was meeting. There was the Tuttle
person. I had learned from Mrs. Effie in Paris that he was an Indian
(accounting for much that was startling in his behaviour there) yet
despite his being an aborigine I now learned that his was one of the
county families and he and his white American wife were guests at that
first dinner. Throughout the meal both Cousin Egbert and he winked
atrociously at me whenever they could catch my eye.
There was, again, an English person calling himself Hobbs, a baker, to
whom Cousin Egbert presented me, full of delight at the idea that as
compatriots we were bound to be congenial. Yet it needed only a glance
and a moment’s listening to the fellow’s execrable cockney dialect to
perceive that he was distinctly low-class, and I was immensely
relieved, upon inquiry, to learn that he affiliated only with the
Bohemian set. I felt a marked antagonism between us at that first
meeting; the fellow eyed me with frank suspicion and displayed a taste
for low chaffing which I felt bound to rebuke. He it was, I may now
disclose, who later began a fashion of referring to me as “Lord Algy,”
which I found in the worst possible taste. “Sets himself up for a
gentleman, does he? He ain’t no more a gentleman than wot I be!” This
speech of his reported to me will show how impossible the creature
was. He was simply a person one does not know, and I was not long in
letting him see it.
And there was the woman who was to play so active a part in my later
history, of whom it will be well to speak at once. I had remarked her
on the main street before I knew her identity. I am bound to say she
stood out from the other women of Red Gap by reason of a certain dash,
not to say beauty. Rather above medium height and of pleasingly full
figure, her face was piquantly alert, with long-lashed eyes of a
peculiar green, a small nose, the least bit raised, a lifted chin, and
an abundance of yellowish hair. But it was the expertness of her
gowning that really held my attention at that first view, and the fact
that she knew what to put on her head. For the most part, the ladies I
had met were well enough gotten up yet looked curiously all wrong,
lacking a genius for harmony of detail.
This person, I repeat, displayed a taste that was faultless, a
knowledge of the peculiar needs of her face and figure that was
unimpeachable. Rather with regret it was I found her to be a Mrs.
Kenner, the leader of the Bohemian set. And then came the further
items that marked her as one that could not be taken up. Perhaps a
summary of these may be conveyed when I say that she had long been
known as Klondike Kate. She had some years before, it seemed, been a
dancing person in the far Alaska north and had there married the
proprietor of one of the resorts in which she disported herself--a man
who had accumulated a very sizable fortune in his public house and who
was shot to death by one of his patrons who had alleged unfairness in
a game of chance. The widow had then purchased a townhouse in Red Gap
and had quickly gathered about her what was known as the Bohemian set,
the county families, of course, refusing to know her.
After that first brief study of her I could more easily account for
the undercurrents of bitterness I had felt in Red Gap society. She
would be, I saw, a dangerous woman in any situation where she was
opposed; there was that about her--a sort of daring disregard of the
established social order. I was not surprised to learn that the men of
the community strongly favoured her, especially the younger dancing
set who were not restrained by domestic considerations. Small wonder
then that the women of the “old noblesse,” as I may call them, were
outspokenly bitter in their comments upon her. This I discovered when
I attended an afternoon meeting of the ladies’ “Onwards and Upwards
Club,” which, I had been told, would be devoted to a study of the
English Lake poets, and where, it having been discovered that I read
rather well, I had consented to favour the assembly with some of the
more significant bits from these bards. The meeting, I regret to say,
after a formal enough opening was diverted from its original purpose,
the time being occupied in a quite heated discussion of a so-called
“Dutch Supper” the Klondike person had given the evening before, the
same having been attended, it seemed, by the husbands of at least
three of those present, who had gone incognito, as it were. At no time
during the ensuing two hours was there a moment that seemed opportune
for the introduction of some of our noblest verse.
And so, by often painful stages, did my education progress. At the
country club I played golf with Mr. Jackson. At social affairs I
appeared with the Flouds. I played bridge. I danced the more dignified
dances. And, though there was no proper church in the town--only
dissenting chapels, Methodist, Presbyterian, and such outlandish
persuasions--I attended services each Sabbath, and more than once had
tea with what at home would have been the vicar of the parish.
It was now, when I had begun to feel a bit at ease in my queer foreign
environment, that Mr. Belknap-Jackson broached his ill-starred plan
for amateur theatricals. At the first suggestion of this I was
immensely taken with the idea, suspecting that he would perhaps
present “Hamlet,” a part to which I have devoted long and intelligent
study and to which I feel that I could bring something which has not
yet been imparted to it by even the most skilled of our professional
actors. But at my suggestion of this Mr. Belknap-Jackson informed me
that he had already played Hamlet himself the year before, leaving
nothing further to be done in that direction, and he wished now to
attempt something more difficult; something, moreover, that would
appeal to the little group of thinking people about us--he would have
“a little theatre of ideas,” as he phrased it--and he had chosen for
his first offering a play entitled “Ghosts” by the foreign dramatist
Ibsen.
I suspected at first that this might be a farce where a supposititious
ghost brings about absurd predicaments in a country house, having seen
something along these lines, but a reading of the thing enlightened me
as to its character, which, to put it bluntly, is rather thick. There
is a strain of immorality running through it which I believe cannot be
too strongly condemned if the world is to be made better, and this is
rendered the more repugnant to right-thinking people by the fact that
the participants are middle-class persons who converse in quite
commonplace language such as one may hear any day in the home.
Wrongdoing is surely never so objectionable as when it is indulged in
by common people and talked about in ordinary language, and the
language of this play is not stage language at all. Immorality such as
one gets in Shakespeare is of so elevated a character that one accepts
it, the language having a grandeur incomparably above what any person
was ever capable of in private life, being always elegant and
unnatural.
Though I felt this strongly, I was in no position to urge my
objections, and at length consented to take a part in the production,
reflecting that the people depicted were really foreigners and the
part I would play was that of a clergyman whose behaviour throughout
is above reproach. For himself Mr. Jackson had chosen the part of
Oswald, a youth who goes quite dotty at the last for reasons which are
better not talked about. His wife was to play the part of a
serving-maid, who was rather a baggage, while Mrs. Judge Ballard was
to enact his mother. (I may say in passing I have learned that the
plays of this foreigner are largely concerned with people who have
been queer at one time or another, so that one’s parentage is often
uncertain, though they always pay for it by going off in the head
before the final curtain. I mean to say, there is too much
neighbourhood scandal in them.)
There remained but one part to fill, that of the father of the
serving-maid, an uncouth sort of drinking-man, quite low-class, who,
in my opinion, should never have been allowed on the stage at all,
since no moral lesson is taught by him. It was in the casting of this
part that Mr. Jackson showed himself of a forgiving nature. He offered
it to Cousin Egbert, saying he was the true “type”--“with his weak,
dissolute face”--and that “types” were all the rage in theatricals.
At first the latter heatedly declined the honour, but after being
urged and browbeaten for three days by Mrs. Effie he somewhat sullenly
consented, being shown that there were not many lines for him to
learn. From the first, I think, he was rendered quite miserable by the
ordeal before him, yet he submitted to the rehearsals with a rather
pathetic desire to please, and for a time all seemed well. Many an
hour found him mugging away at the book, earnestly striving to
memorize the part, or, as he quaintly expressed it, “that there piece
they want me to speak.” But as the day of our performance drew near it
became evident to me, at least, that he was in a desperately black
state of mind. As best I could I cheered him with words of praise, but
his eye met mine blankly at such times and I could see him shudder
poignantly while waiting the moment of his entrance.
And still all might have been well, I fancy, but for the extremely
conscientious views of Mr. Jackson in the matter of our costuming and
make-up. With his lines fairly learned, Cousin Egbert on the night of
our dress rehearsal was called upon first to don the garb of the
foreign carpenter he was to enact, the same involving shorts and gray
woollen hose to his knees, at which he protested violently. So far as
I could gather, his modesty was affronted by this revelation of his
lower legs. Being at length persuaded to this sacrifice, he next
submitted his face to Mr. Jackson, who adjusted it to a labouring
person’s beard and eyebrows, crimsoning the cheeks and nose heavily
with grease-paint and crowning all with an unkempt wig.
The result, I am bound to say, was artistic in the extreme. No one
would have suspected the identity of Cousin Egbert, and I had hopes
that he would feel a new courage for his part when he beheld himself.
Instead, however, after one quick glance into the glass he emitted a
gasp of horror that was most eloquent, and thereafter refused to be
comforted, holding himself aloof and glaring hideously at all who
approached him. Rather like a mad dog he was.
Half an hour later, when all was ready for our first act, Cousin
Egbert was not to be found. I need not dwell upon the annoyance this
occasioned, nor upon how a substitute in the person of our hall’s
custodian, or janitor, was impressed to read the part. Suffice it to
tell briefly that Cousin Egbert, costumed and bedizened as he was, had
fled not only the theatre but the town as well. Search for him on the
morrow was unavailing. Not until the second day did it become known
that he had been seen at daybreak forty miles from Red Gap, goading a
spent horse into the wilds of the adjacent mountains. Our informant
disclosed that one side of his face was still bearded and that he had
kept glancing back over his shoulder at frequent intervals, as if
fearful of pursuit. Something of his frantic state may also be gleaned
from the circumstance that the horse he rode was one he had found
hitched in a side street near the hall, its ownership being unknown to
him.
For the rest it may be said that our performance was given as
scheduled, announcement being made of the sudden illness of Mr. Egbert
Floud, and his part being read from the book in a rich and cultivated
voice by the superintendent of the high school. Our efforts were
received with respectful attention by a large audience, among whom I
noted many of the Bohemian set, and this I took as an especial tribute
to our merits. Mr. Belknap-Jackson, however, to whom I mentioned the
circumstance, was pessimistic.
“I fear,” said he, “we have not heard the last of it. I am sure they
came for no good purpose.”
“They were quite orderly in their behaviour,” I suggested
“Which is why I suspect them. That Kenner woman, Hobbs, the baker, the
others of their set--they’re not thinking people; I dare say they
never consider social problems seriously. And you may have noticed
that they announce an amateur minstrel performance for a week hence.
I’m quite convinced that they mean to be vulgar to the last
extreme--there has been so much talk of the behaviour of the wretched
Floud, a fellow who really has no place in our modern civilization. He
should be compelled to remain on his ranche.”
And indeed these suspicions proved to be only too well founded. That
which followed was so atrociously personal that in any country but
America we could have had an action against them. As Mr.
Belknap-Jackson so bitterly said when all was over, “Our boasted
liberty has degenerated into license.”
It is best told in a few words, this affair of the minstrel
performance, which I understood was to be an entertainment wherein the
participants darkened themselves to resemble blackamoors. Naturally, I
did not attend, it being agreed that the best people should signify
their disapproval by staying away, but the disgraceful affair was
recounted to me in all its details by more than one of the large
audience that assembled. In the so-called “grand first part” there
seemed to have been little that was flagrantly insulting to us,
although in their exchange of conundrums, which is a peculiar feature
of this form of entertainment, certain names were bandied about with a
freedom that boded no good.
It was in the after-piece that the poltroons gave free play to their
vilest fancies. Our piece having been announced as “Ghosts; a Drama
for Thinking People,” this part was entitled on their programme,
“Gloats; a Dram for Drinking People,” a transposition that should
perhaps suffice to show the dreadful lengths to which they went; yet I
feel that the thing should be set down in full.
The stage was set as our own had been, but it would scarce be credited
that the Kenner woman in male attire had made herself up in a
curiously accurate resemblance to Belknap-Jackson as he had rendered
the part of Oswald, copying not alone his wig, moustache, and fashion
of speech, but appearing in a golfing suit which was recognized by
those present as actually belonging to him.
Nor was this the worst, for the fellow Hobbs had copied my own dress
and make-up and persisted in speaking in an exaggerated manner alleged
to resemble mine. This, of course, was the most shocking bad taste,
and while it was quite to have been expected of Hobbs, I was indeed
rather surprised that the entire assembly did not leave the auditorium
in disgust the moment they perceived his base intention. But it was
Cousin Egbert whom they had chosen to rag most unmercifully, and they
were not long in displaying their clumsy attempts at humour.
As the curtain went up they were searching for him, affecting to be
unconscious of the presence of their audience, and declaring that the
play couldn’t go on without him. “Have you tried all the saloons?”
asked one, to which another responded, “Yes, and he’s been in all of
them, but now he has fled. The sheriff has put bloodhounds on his
trail and promises to have him here, dead or alive.”
“Then while we are waiting,” declared the character supposed to
represent myself, “I will tell you a wheeze,” whereupon both the
female characters fell to their knees shrieking, “Not that! My God,
not that!” while Oswald sneered viciously and muttered, “Serves me
right for leaving Boston.”
To show the infamy of the thing, I must here explain that at several
social gatherings, in an effort which I still believe was
praiseworthy, I had told an excellent wheeze which runs: “Have you
heard the story of the three holes in the ground?” I mean to say, I
would ask this in an interested manner, as if I were about to relate
the anecdote, and upon being answered “No!” I would exclaim with mock
seriousness, “Well! Well! Well!” This had gone rippingly almost quite
every time I had favoured a company with it, hardly any one of my
hearers failing to get the joke at a second telling. I mean to say,
the three holes in the ground being three “Wells!” uttered in rapid
succession.
Of course if one doesn’t see it at once, or finds it a bit subtle,
it’s quite silly to attempt to explain it, because logically there is
no adequate explanation. It is merely a bit of nonsense, and that’s
quite all to it. But these boors now fell upon it with their coarse
humour, the fellow Hobbs pretending to get it all wrong by asking if
they had heard the story about the three wells and the others
replying: “No, tell us the hole thing,” which made utter nonsense of
it, whereupon they all began to cry, “Well! well! well!” at each other
until interrupted by a terrific noise in the wings, which was followed
by the entrance of the supposed Cousin Egbert, a part enacted by the
cab-driver who had conveyed us from the station the day of our
arrival. Dragged on he was by the sheriff and two of the town
constables, the latter being armed with fowling-pieces and the sheriff
holding two large dogs in leash. The character himself was heavily
manacled and madly rattled his chains, his face being disguised to
resemble Cousin Egbert’s after the beard had been adjusted.
“Here he is!” exclaimed the supposed sheriff; “the dogs ran him into
the third hole left by the well-diggers, and we lured him out by
making a noise like sour dough.” During this speech, I am told, the
character snarled continuously and tried to bite his captors. At this
the woman, who had so deplorably unsexed herself for the character of
Mr. Belknap-Jackson as he had played Oswald, approached the prisoner
and smartly drew forth a handful of his beard which she stuffed into a
pipe and proceeded to smoke, after which they pretended that the play
went on. But no more than a few speeches had been uttered when the
supposed Cousin Egbert eluded his captors and, emitting a loud shriek
of horror, leaped headlong through the window at the back of the
stage, his disappearance being followed by the sounds of breaking
glass as he was supposed to fall to the street below.
“How lovely!” exclaimed the mimic Oswald. “Perhaps he has broken both
his legs so he can’t run off any more,” at which the fellow Hobbs
remarked in his affected tones: “That sort of thing would never do
with us.”
This I learned aroused much laughter, the idea being that the remark
had been one which I am supposed to make in private life, though I
dare say I have never uttered anything remotely like it.
“The fellow is quite impossible,” continued the spurious Oswald, with
a doubtless rather clever imitation of Mr. Belknap-Jackson’s manner.
“If he is killed, feed him to the goldfish and let one of the dogs
read his part. We must get along with this play. Now, then. ‘Ah! why
did I ever leave Boston where every one is nice and proper?’” To which
his supposed mother replied with feigned emotion: “It was because of
your father, my poor boy. Ah, what I had to endure through those years
when he cursed and spoke disrespectfully of our city. ‘Scissors and
white aprons,’ he would cry out, ‘Why is Boston?’ But I bore it all
for your sake, and now you, too, are smoking--you will go the same
way.”
“But promise me, mother,” returns Oswald, “promise me if I ever get
dusty in the garret, that Lord Algy here will tell me one of his funny
wheezes and put me out of pain. You could not bear to hear me knocking
Boston as poor father did. And I feel it coming--already my
mother-in-law has bluffed me into admitting that Red Gap has a right
to be on the same map with Boston if it’s a big map.”
And this was the coarsely wretched buffoonery that refined people were
expected to sit through! Yet worse followed, for at their climax, the
mimic Oswald having gone quite off his head, the Hobbs person, still
with the preposterous affectation of taking me off in speech and
manner, was persuaded by the stricken mother to sing. “Sing that dear
old plantation melody from London,” she cried, “so that my poor boy
may know there are worse things than death.” And all this witless
piffle because of a quite natural misunderstanding of mine.
I have before referred to what I supposed was an American plantation
melody which I had heard a black sing at Brighton, meaning one of the
English blacks who colour themselves for the purpose, but on reciting
the lines at an evening affair, when the American folksongs were under
discussion, I was told that it could hardly have been written by an
American at all, but doubtless by one of our own composers who had
taken too little trouble with his facts. I mean to say, the song as I
had it, betrayed misapprehensions both of a geographical and faunal
nature, but I am certain that no one thought the worse of me for
having been deceived, and I had supposed the thing forgotten. Yet now
what did I hear but that a garbled version of this song had been
supposedly sung by myself, the Hobbs person meantime mincing across
the stage and gesturing with a monocle which he had somehow procured,
the words being quite simply:
“Away down south in Michigan,
Where I was a slave, so happy and so gay,
‘Twas there I mowed the cotton and the cane.
I used to hunt the elephants, the tigers, and giraffes,
And the alligators at the break of day.
But the blooming Injuns prowled about my cabin every night,
So I’d take me down my banjo and I’d play,
And I’d sing a little song and I’d make them dance with glee,
On the banks of the Ohio far away.”
I mean to say, there was nothing to make a dust about even if the song
were not of a true American origin, yet I was told that the creature
who sang it received hearty applause and even responded to an encore.