A NEW DOMESTIC DRAMA, BY UNCLE LETH.
On the evening of the day on which Phoebe received from her father the
gift of a florin, which munificent sum he deemed to be sufficient to
provide for his daughter's birthday treat to her aunt and uncle Leth
and her cousins, Mr. Lethbridge wended his way homeward from the bank,
indulging, as he walked, in a more than usually glowing day-dream.
There exists in a great number of poor and struggling families a common
sympathetic legend of a relation who ran away from home when very
young, who has made a fabulous fortune in a distant land, and who will
one day suddenly present himself to his astonished kinsfolk, and fill
their hearts with joy by pouring untold gold into their laps. This good
genius is always a gray-headed old man, with bright eyes and a soul of
good-nature, and is, of course, invariably a bachelor--a delightful
fiction which insures comfortable portions to the marriageable girls.
"The Indies" used to be the favourite locality in which the runaway
uncle or cousin made and saved his fortune, but of late years Australia
and America have been pressed into service. Such a legend had existed
in Mr. Lethbridge's family when he was a youngster; and as he now
walked toward Camden Town, who should turn up--in his dreams--but a
fabulously wealthy old gentleman, who had come home for the express
purpose of presenting Mr. Lethbridge with no less a sum than twenty
thousand pounds? Here was a foundation for the day-dreamer to work
upon! but it was not all. There was a most important connection nearer
to his heart, and altogether of a more tangible character. Among the
friends of the family was a certain Fred Cornwall, a young barrister
waiting for briefs, regarding whom Mrs. Lethbridge had more than once
confidentially unbosomed herself to her spouse to the effect that she
was certain "he came after Fanny." Up to the present moment, supposing
that Fred Cornwall had really any serious intentions, this was as far
as he had got; but it was far enough for Mr. Lethbridge. The slenderest
foundations were sufficiently strong for his castles. Now, on this
evening, Fred Cornwall was abroad on a little summer trip, and before
Mr. Lethbridge had started for his bank in the morning his wife had
whispered to him that Fanny had received a letter from Fred. What more
was wanting for fancy with open eyes in London streets?
He has left the bank. They gave him a dinner and a testimonial on
parchment, and another in gold, which is now ticking in the left-hand
pocket of his waistcoat. It was the pleasantest affair. Such things
were said of him! And the choicest flowers from the banquet table were
sent by hand to his wife and daughter. Simply to think of it made the
tears come into his eyes.
He has bought the lease of the dear old house in Camden Town. He has no
ambition to live in a better, despite the fact that he is master of
twenty thousand pounds. Well, not quite so much, perhaps, because there
was the lease to pay for, and the smartening up of the house, and some
new furniture to buy for the best rooms. But quite enough, quite
enough.
There is still something to do before the new arrangements are
completed, and for this purpose he and his wife and Fanny are jogging
along happily through fashionable thoroughfares, where the tradesmen
have provided in their windows a veritable Aladdin's cave for their
entertainment, and wherein the ladies of his family, intent upon
killing two birds with one stone, have decided to indulge in a "little
shopping"--of all female occupations the most attractive and
fascinating.
In Regent Street whom should they meet but Fred Cornwall? Here he is,
face to face with them. Mr. Lethbridge greets him cordially.
"Hallo, Fred! Who would have thought of seeing you? Why, where have you
been these last three weeks? On the Continent? Of course, of course--I
remember your telling us you were going. Enjoyed yourself, I hope? Yes!
Very glad, very glad. How brown you look! When did you return? A few
hours ago only--ah! Come round and see us this evening. You intended
to! That's right. You'll see an improvement--we've been buying some new
furniture and doing up the house. Do you know anything of roses, Fred?
I want to put a few dozen standards in the garden; I've got some apple
and pear trees in already. Our own fruit next year, Fred. Fact is, I've
had a windfall. Ever heard me tell of a relation of mine who ran away
from home when he was a boy, and who made a great fortune abroad? Well,
to our astonishment, he turned up a little while ago, and behaved most
handsomely to us; so handsomely, indeed, that I've resigned at the
bank. No occasion to work any more, my boy; can take it easy. Pleased
to hear it? Of course you are. It makes no difference in us, Fred.
We're just the same as we always were--just the same--just the same.
Now how about the briefs, Fred? Are they rolling in? No! But of course
you must wait, as I have waited. Don't be discouraged, my lad!
Hope--hope--hope; that's the best tonic for youngsters. Perhaps I may
put something in your way. Anything particular to do this morning? We
are making a few purchases, and, now I think of it, I have heard Fanny
say, repeatedly, that your taste in ladies' dress is perfect. What are
you blushing for, Fanny? Give Fred your arm. I have no doubt he will be
happy to accompany us."
Mr. Lethbridge's day-dream was here snapped in the middle. He was
recalled to earth by a clap on his shoulder and the sound of a mellow
voice.
"The very man I was coming to see! How are you, Leth, old man?"
The mellowness of the speaker's voice was matched by the mellowness of
his personal appearance. Good spirits and good-nature oozed out of him.
His clean-shaven face was round and rubicund; his eyes had a cheery
light in them; a jolly smile hovered about his mouth. He was a large
man; his hands, his nose, his head, were massive--it is the only word
that will describe them. But nothing in him was out of proportion, and
the geniality and jollity of the man were in keeping with his physical
gifts. As there is no occasion for mystery, he may at once be
introduced: "Mr. Kislingbury--the reader."
A famous man, Mr. Kislingbury, as you know. Has he not afforded you
opportunities innumerable, of which, as a sensible man, you have taken
full advantage--for it is not to be doubted that you are an
enthusiastic play-goer--for hearty laughter? Has he not made your sides
ache this many a time and oft, and have you not gone home the better
for it? Is there not something so contagious in the merry notes of his
rich voice that your mouth wreathes with smiles the moment it reaches
your ears? Yes, everybody knows Kiss--though his name be Kislingbury,
he is never spoken of but as Kiss by his friends and the public--and
everybody has a kindly feeling toward him. With reason. His humour is
unctuous, but never coarse; he bubbles over with fun, but never
descends to buffoonery; great in old comedies, to the manner born, and,
perhaps because of that, a little out of date. But Kiss, although
fortune has not been over-lavish toward him, is contented with his lot.
And he has, perhaps, a rarer virtue than all--he respects his author,
and when he plays a new part and makes a hit in it, does not take all
the credit to himself. This is the man who clapped Mr. Lethbridge on
the shoulder in the midst of that gentleman's glowing day-dream, and
cried: "The very man I was coming to see! How are you, Leth, old man?"
"Very well, I thank you," said Mr. Lethbridge, a little slowly, not
immediately recognizing his friend; he was not in the habit of taking a
harlequin leap out of his musings; it generally occupied him a few
moments to get back to earth. "Very well, very well. Why, it's Kiss!
Glad to see you, Kiss, glad to see you!"
"Day-dreaming, Leth?" inquired Kiss, merrily and kindly.
Mr. Lethbridge's flights in this direction were well-known to his
friends.
"Yes, Kiss, yes. Amusing myself as usual. Upon my word, I hardly know a
better way of passing the time. Almost as good as a theatre."
Kiss and Mr. Lethbridge were related--second or third cousins, or
something of that sort; one of those genealogical connections with
mixed marriages which make the head ache--and it was from Kiss that Mr.
Lethbridge obtained orders for the play. Kiss had other and nearer
relations, some of whom were in the habit of visiting Mr. Lethbridge's
house, where, it need scarcely be said, they were more than welcome,
the younger members of Aunt Leth's family, and all her other young
friends, looking up to these luminaries with a kind of awe.
"Better than a theatre, I dare say," said Kiss, heartily; "at all
events, a great deal cheaper. So easy to get up your pieces, so easy to
write 'em, so easy to get them played. No jealousies and
heart-burnings; all plain sailing. And no rehearsals, my boy; no
rehearsals"--at which contemplation Kiss joyously rubbed his hands.
"Everybody pleased and satisfied with his part. Lessee, stage-manager,
every soul in the place, down to the check-taker at the gallery--I
should rather say up, shouldn't I?--in a state of calm beatitude. Why?
Because success is assured beforehand. No expense for dresses, none for
scenery. Such a first-night audience! No blackguards paying their
shillings in the hope of a chance of hooting and hissing. There are
such now-a-days, I regret to say. Then the critics! Not at all a bad
lot, Leth, let me tell you, though they have given many a poor devil
the heartache. I often pity them for the sorry stuff they have to
listen to and write about. Not a bed of roses, theirs! And I'd sooner
be Kiss, first low comedy, than dramatic critic of the best paper
going. As you play your pieces, Leth, do you ever think of the fine
notices written about 'em in the next morning's papers?"
"I seldom get as far as that," replied Mr. Lethbridge, smiling.
"Ah!" said Kiss, "that's because you have no vanity."
"I have a great deal," said Mr. Lethbridge, shaking his head.
"You're no judge of yourself; none of us are of ourselves. But let your
mind run on it a bit; it will make your nerves tingle with delight. Not
for yourself, perhaps; for others--for Aunt Leth, now; and pretty
Fanny; and Bob, the rascal!"
"Yes, for them, for them!" said Mr. Lethbridge, eagerly. "I will, Kiss;
I will!--that is, if it comes to me to do it. For, do you know, what
you call 'my pieces' are really very curious things, not only in
themselves, but in the way they happen. Quite unexpectedly, Kiss--quite
unexpectedly. Now what do the critics say about the piece--just by way
of example--I've been playing in my walk home from the bank? But it's
rather foolish of me to ask you such a question, as you are in complete
ignorance of the kind of piece it is."
"Wrong, Leth, wrong. I know a great deal about it; more than you are
aware of."
"Really?"
"Really, and in very truth, my liege lord."
"Now this is interesting. It is quite a pleasure, meeting you in this
way. Go on about my piece."
"First and foremost," said Kiss, "to settle the style of it. I
pronounce that it is not a tragedy."
"Right; it is not."
"It is not a farce."
"Nothing like it--that is, broadly speaking."
"I am speaking broadly. It is not a blood-thirsty melodrama, with a
murder in it, and a wedding; or, if not that, a pair of lovers, just
about to be tied together; or, if not that, a husband and wife torn
from each other's arms. It amounts to the same thing, because the main
point is that the man is falsely accused of the murder."
"Of course he is," said Mr. Lethbridge, "or where should we be?"
"Exactly," said Kiss, with a humorous imitation of Mr. Lethbridge's
manner. "If that was not the case, where should we be? Worth
considering. Perhaps worse off; perhaps better. I will not take it upon
myself to judge. We are talking now of the regulation pattern--good old
style, Leth, _but_ old. Would stand a bad chance if it were not for the
magnificent scenery and the wonderful dresses, mechanical changes,
houses turned inside out, exteriors turned outside in, gas lowered to
vanishing point to assist the delusion--splendid opportunity that for
the lover and his lass, in the pit! Wish I was young again, and before
the foot-lights, instead of behind them, so that I might take my
imaginary little girl (whom I adore, from the crown of her pretty head
to the tips of her little shoes) to the pit when such a melodrama, with
the lights turned down, is being played. When I say 'regulation
pattern,' Leth, don't mistake me; I am not speaking against it. As for
originality--well, perhaps the least said about it the better. We were
rehearsing a new melodrama the other day, and the subject cropped up on
the stage. The scene-painter was there, and he took part in the
discussion, though he spoke never a word."
"How could he do that without speaking?"
"Well, he winked."
"I don't see much in that," observed Mr. Lethbridge, somewhat
mystified.
"Of course you don't, the reason being "--and good humour beamed in
every feature of Kiss's merry face--"that you are not, like myself, a
cynic."
"Come, that's good," protested Mr. Lethbridge: "you a cynic!"
"I would not have my enemies say so," said Kiss; "and don't you betray
me at home. So it is settled that your piece is not a tragedy, nor a
broad farce, nor a melodrama with a murder in it. Nor is it a comedy of
character, bristling with smart sayings--everybody saying clever,
ill-natured things about everybody else. No, Leth; _your_ piece is a
simple domestic drama, lighted up by the sweetest stars of life--the
stars of pure love and a happy home."
"You have," said Mr. Lethbridge, stirred by the feeling which his
friend threw into the words, "a remarkable felicity of expression. You
are almost--a poet."
"A bread-and-butter poet, then. Yes; a simple drama of domestic life,
upon which the stars of love and home are shining. That's what the
critics say the next morning: 'It is refreshing to come across a play
so sweet, so natural, so human. Here are no high flights of the
imagination; no violent twisting of ordinary events to serve a
startling purpose; no dragging in of abnormal, precocious children, to
show how clever they are; nothing, in short, out of drawing or out of
proportion. The play is an idyl, in which all that is wholesome in
every-day life is brought into prominence to gladden the heart and
refresh the senses. It leaves a sweet taste in the mouth, and when the
curtain fell upon the delightful story, the author was called again and
again, and applauded with a heartiness which must have sent him home
rejoicing to the bosom of his family. We trust that the success he won
and deserved will encourage him to further efforts in this direction,
and that on many future occasions he will charm and beguile us as he
did last night. His feet are firmly planted on the ladder of fame, and
he has only to go on as he has begun, to make his name a household
word.'"
"Upon my word," said Mr. Lethbridge, "you almost take away my breath."
"But am I a true diviner?" asked Kiss.
"About the critics?"
"About the piece--_your_ piece?"
"You are a wizard. I think if I _were_ a dramatic author I should try
to write precisely the kind of play you have described. You see, there
is little else in my mind. But I am afraid you are wrong about the
critics."
"Not at all," persisted Kiss. "Critics are human, like other people;
and search the whole world through, you will find no song more popular
than 'Home, sweet Home.'"