lieutenants. Wonder if an' 'unwiling pennence' meant a reluctant pen
'cause he didn't care to mention Spurs an' had to have a rhyme?"
"It's likely. But look yere, Jerry. Yo' an' I don't breathe. Our breath
draws _us_."
"Pretty strong breath it must be, then."
"Hush, man! Yo' goin' to show these to Shorty?"
"I was thinkin' maybe he wouldn't like to think Ryan was still writin',
now that he's a corporal."
"Ah, go on; show it. Shorty won't care."
And Shorty didn't. Only, after a delighted snort over the ode, he sent
forth the order: "You tell him I say this has got to be the last. If I
catch him writin' any more monkey-doodle verses, I'll bust him quick as
a minute. If he wants to be a non-com in my troop, he's got to put his
whole mind to it."
Ryan obeyed, and, unsaddling his Pegasus, set himself to work with such
a will that as time went on he came to be one of the best non-coms
in the troop, particularly where the instruction of recruits was
concerned; for he seemed to have a special sympathy with them, and a
knack of imparting the correct way to do things; His suit with Cora
prospered, too, for she paid more attention to the corporal than she
had to the private; but, being past grand mistress of the art of
flirtation, she always contrived some little act or remark to chasten
her lover's spirit and keep him sufficiently humble, as an offset to
any particular favoritism that might have uplifted his spirits; which
manoeuver always successfully puzzled Teddy. "First she's all sweet as
candy; next minute I get the throw-down." But he never despaired, and
came back strongly on the rebound, inquiring periodically, "Say, Cora,
you're goin' ter marry me when I get mer sergeancy, ain't yer?" And she
would reply, laughing: "Yes, when you get to be a sergeant I'll marry
yer; an' that'll be when the river catches fire."
Time wore on, and the summer drew to a close. Hansen was no longer the
quartermaster-sergeant, so he was not such an impressive figure as
he had been. One payday Captain Campbell instructed Stone to read
the men a lecture on the sin of drunkenness. "Not that I mind a man's
gettin' drunk so much, but when the whole troop goes on a booze, it's a
blame sight too much of a good thing. We're not to have any such time
in J barracks as we did last month. You tell 'em that, an' make it
red-hot."
So Stone, translating liberally, read them a severe lecture, ending up
with: "An' if any of you big yaps comes home drunk, don't care who he
is, he gets put under arrest. Savvy? That's straight."
The troop paid honors to an ultimatum when it was paraded before
them, and it was a straight-walking, sober crowd that rounded up at
J barracks that night. But, shortly before reveille, sounds of song
and hilarity disturbed the sleepers, and Stone was obliged to rise
and place Sergeant Knudt Hansen under arrest. He had returned from
town in an exceedingly talkative frame of mind, and was now tipsily
enlightening his squad-room on the disgracefully small quantity of
drinks that could be bought on a sergeant's pay.
"I hate to do it, old man," said Stone, "but I'll have to put you
under arrest. You know what I said, and now you've gone an' done this
deliberately."
"Aw right. 'Sh mer own fault--only 'sh bad exshample to 'resht
shergeant before shquad-room o' privatshes; mosht demoralizin'."
"I'm sorry, Hansen, but I must do it. You are confined to quarters for
two days." And Stone retired, grieved that Hansen, of all men, should
have been the one to suffer for the sake of an example.
"Gee!" said Brown, "I never thought Stone'd do that!"
"Wouldn't he, though?" rejoined Ryan. "You bet your boots, a sergeant
looks all-same buck to the Top."
"Hansen'll lay it up to him, you see," said Hickey, looking at the big
man now sprawled out on his bunk in noisy slumber.
"Not on yer life, Dope," said Brown. "Hansen's too much sense fer that.
He'll see the Top's side of it." And so it proved, for, after a few
half-laughs, half-apologetic words from his first sergeant, Hansen
agreed that there had been no other course to pursue.
"And, anyway," he said, with a grin, "I'll get a goot rest, yess. It
iss about time I loafed some. I shall sleep."
Now, sleep was all very well for that day and part of the next, but by
the afternoon of the second day Sergeant Knudt Hansen's active mind
and body became saturated with rest and extremely bored. He had read
everything he could lay his hands on, even including a vagrant copy of
"Edgeworth's Moral Tales" that had wandered, Heaven knows how, into
the troop library. While affording him food for sarcastically profane
comment in the slimy sediment of at least six different languages, this
estimable work had, if anything, increased his ennui. His body began
actually to ache for action of some sort; almost anything would do at a
pinch.
Strolling disconsolately through the hall, whom should he chance to
see but Corporal Ryan, who was in charge of quarters for that day,
busily cleaning his saber (for the next day was Saturday), and singing
cheerfully, "'You're in the army now.'"
"Let up on that musical, you gamin; it iss not to the ear pleasant,"
growled Hansen. Besides his other grievance that Ryan's cheerfulness
flicked on the raw, the little corporal had cut out the big sergeant
several times lately with Cora.
"Ah, g'wan an' soak yer swelled head!" retorted Ryan respectfully, and,
bending to his work, began to carol forth the delectable ballad of the
"Rubber Dolly." Hansen advanced into the room.
"See here, Meester Freshie, that iss no way to speak to your sergeant!
Oh, yess; I am knowing what you mean. You t'ank, because Cora go with
you a leetle, you can come it ofer me here, too--not?"
"You leave her name out o' that," said Teddy, straightening up and
reddening. "She's got nothin' ter do with it, an' you leave her be."
"Oho! The leetle man tank she iss so sweet and innocent a leetle girl,
I am not fit to speak of her--yess? Why, she--" And Hansen started in
to enumerate in no very choice language certain fabricated insinuations
against the character of the popular Miss Cora Sheean. But they were
barely out of his mouth before Teddy Ryan's fist was in it. Blindly
the big Swede struck back, catching Ryan on the nose and drawing the
blood; and then they started in in earnest.
"Hello, hello! What's all this?" demanded Captain Campbell, popping in
on the scene like a vibrant little jack-in-the-box. Hansen drew off.
"He used language to me, sir, and I am hiss sergeant; it iss him that I
am teaching hiss place," he explained sullenly.
"But, Cap'en," cried Ryan, "he said--he said--I can't tell yer what he
said," he finished slowly.
"Well, I can tell what _I'll_ say, an' pretty blame quick! Hansen,
you're a bully, that's what. Next time tackle some one nearer your
size; an' you get three days' confinement. Ryan (for heaven's sake
get a handkerchief an' wipe your nose), I'll give you a day, too; for
fightin' your sergeant an' for gettin' into a fight when you're left in
charge of quarters." Thus it was that the Captain ended the fight, but
the consequences stretched far beyond him and were in the hands of Cora.
"You oughter been ter J Troop yesterday," quoth Corporal Brown the next
evening, while sitting on Miss Cora Sheean's front step. "Hansen an'
Ryan had a fight. Hansen said somepin', an' Ryan went fer him, an' they
had it hot. Nobody was by, an' Ryan won't tell, so we don't know what
Hansen said."
Cora was staring at him with eyes wide with concern. "My Lord!" she
gasped, "is he hurt?"
"Naw, Hansen ain't hurt none. He's a fighter, an' Ryan ain't big enough
ter----"
"_Stupid!_ I mean Teddy Ryan. Is he hurt?"
"Naw; only a black eye an' a nose-bleed. Cap'en stopped 'em before
Hansen had a chance ter do much."
"Thank Gawd!" sighed Cora, sinking back in relief. "Look here, Mr.
Brown, will you do me a favor? Will you tell Mr. Ryan that if he can
run over here early to-morrow mornin', I got somethin' I want ter give
him?"
When the bearer of tidings had departed, Cora sat up very straight,
with tightly clasped hands, repeating vacantly, with an ambiguous
mixture of pronouns, "He might er killed him--he might er killed
him!" For to her the fight between these men had only one meaning;
intuitively she knew herself to be the cause. "He fought for me," she
said, "I know he did. An' I want Teddy Ryan. _I want him!_"
Next morning she peeped out of the window and watched the approach of
the sturdy, honest-faced little corporal before she went to open the
door for him herself.
"You wanted ter see me?" he said, fingering his hat shyly.
"Yes; I--I heard you'd been in a fight. I--I wanted to read you a
lecture. That's an awful eye you got, Mr. Ryan!"
"I'm sorry you don't like it, Miss Cora, but I had to; you'd have
wanted me to if you'd known."
"Oh!" cried Cora, and her heart whispered: "Then it _was_ about me,
just as I thought, and the dear won't tell me." But aloud she said, "It
ain't ever right to fight, an' I didn't think it of you, Mr. Ryan."
"I had to," he repeated awkwardly, and turned away. "Is that all you
had ter say ter me? I must go back; but I thought Brown said that you
had somethin' ter give me."
"Yes," said Cora in a very scared, small voice. "I have--_me_!"
"Cora! Do you mean it, girlie? Do you really mean it?" And two short
but strong arms went round her. "But I ain't a sergeant yet, nor won't
be for ever so long."
"Oh, Teddy!" said Cora, and hid her face right over his second button,
"I ain't lovin' yer chevrons; I'm lovin' _you_."
* * * * *
Shorty received the joyous news in ominous silence. "When's the
weddin'?" he demanded abruptly.
"Oh, sometime next month, I guess," said the proud husband-to-be.
"Nothin' of the sort. You get married next week; do you hear? No mañana
about this business; get it over as quick as possible. You'll be
worthless to me for long enough, as it is. A great poet _you_ are! The
whole thing was nothin' but the girl, just as I told Sergeant Stone."
So J Troop had a wedding, and the whole troop turned out in force,
brave in full dress, from Shorty down to the latest junior rook--the
only member not present being Sergeant Hansen, who had no interest
in the proceedings. And the punch flowed so freely and so strongly
that every man who tried to enlighten the absent one told a totally
different story.
* * * * *
Spring had come again at Fort Hotchkiss, and one soft evening, as
Stone and Whitney were sitting on the porch, Sergeant Theodore Ryan,
now proudly sporting his three chevrons, came up to them, smiling a
wide-mouthed, foolish smile.
"Well, what's up, hombre?"
"Recruits fer J Troop--over to my quarters."
"_Recruits!_ You don't mean to say there's _two_ of 'em?"
Ryan nodded. "Twins," he assented beamingly.
"'Heaven meant things to go in twos, Cora,'" quoted Whitney.
[Illustration: FROM LEWIS CARROLL TO BERNARD SHAW
BY
ELLEN TERRY
ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PAINTINGS AND PHOTOGRAPHS]
_Copyright, 1908, by Ellen Terry (Mrs. Carew)_
One of the best "audiences" that actor or actress could wish for was
Mr. Gladstone. He used often to come and see the play at the Lyceum
from a little seat in the O. P. entrance, and he nearly always arrived
five minutes before the curtain went up. One night I thought he would
catch cold--it was a bitter night--and I lent him my white scarf.
He could always give his whole great mind to the matter in hand. This
made him one of the most comfortable people to talk to that I have ever
met.
I contrasted his punctuality, when he came to see "King Lear," with
the unpunctuality of Lord Randolph Churchill, who came to see the play
the very next night with a party of men friends and arrived when the
first act was over. Lord Randolph was, all the same, a great admirer of
Henry Irving. He confessed to him once that he had never read a play of
Shakespeare's in his life, but that after seeing Henry act he thought
it was time to begin. A very few days later he astonished us with his
complete and masterly knowledge of at least half a dozen of the plays.
He was a perfect person to meet at a dinner or supper--brilliantly
entertaining, and queerly simple. He struck one as being able to master
any subject that interested him, and, once a Shakespeare performance at
the Lyceum had fired his interest, there was nothing about that play,
or about past performances of it, which he did not know. His beautiful
wife, now Mrs. George Cornwallis West, wore a dress at supper one
evening which gave me the idea for the Lady Macbeth dress, afterwards
painted by Sargent. The bodice of Lady Randolph's gown was trimmed all
over with green beetles' wings. I told Mrs. Comyns Carr about it, and
she remembered it when she designed my Lady Macbeth dress.
The present Princess of Wales, when she was Princess May of Teck, used
often to come to the Lyceum with her mother, Princess Mary, and to
supper in the Beefsteak Room. In 1891 she chose to come as her birthday
treat, which was very flattering to us.
A record of those Beefsteak Room suppers would be a pleasant thing to
possess. I have such a bad memory. I see faces round the table--the
face of Liszt among them--but when I try to think when it was, or how
it was, the faces vanish. Singers were often among Henry Irving's
guests in the Beefsteak Room--Patti, Melba, Calvé, Albani, and many
others.
I once watched Patti sing from behind the scenes at the Metropolitan
Opera House, New York. My impression from that point of view was that
she was actually a _bird_. She could not help singing. Her head,
flattened on top, her nose, tilted downwards like a lovely little beak,
her throat, swelling and swelling as it poured out that extraordinary
volume of sound, all made me think that she must have been a
nightingale before she was transmigrated into a human being. I imagine
that Tetrazzini, whom I have not yet heard, must have this bird-like
quality.
The dear, kind-hearted Melba has always been a good friend of mine. The
first time I met her was in New York at a supper party, and she had a
bad cold, and therefore a frightful speaking voice for the moment. I
shall never forget the shock it gave me. Thank goodness, I very soon
afterwards heard her again when she hadn't a cold, and she spoke as
exquisitely as she sang. She was one of the first to offer her services
for my Jubilee performance at Drury Lane, but unfortunately she was ill
when the day came and could not sing. She had her dresses in "Faust"
copied from mine by Mrs. Nettleship, and I came across a note from her
the other day, thanking me for having introduced her to "an angel."
Another note sent round to me during a performance of "King Arthur" in
Boston I shall always prize:
"You are sublime, adorable, ce soir.... I wish I were a
millionaire--I would throw _all_ my millions at your feet. If
there is another procession, tell the stage-manager to see those
imps of Satan _don't chew gum_. It looks awful.
Love. Melba."
I think at that time it was the solemn procession of mourners following
the dead body of Elaine who were chewing gum, but we always had to be
prepared for it among our American "supers," whether they were angels
or devils or courtiers.
In "Faust" we "carried" about six leading devils for the Brocken scene
and recruited the forty others from local talent in the different towns
that we visited. Their general instructions were to throw up their arms
and look fierce at certain music cues. One night I noticed a girl going
through the most terrible contortions with her jaw, and thought I must
say something. "That's right, dear. Very good, but don't exaggerate."
"How?" was all the answer that I got; and the girl continued to make
faces as before. I was contemplating a second attempt, when Templeton,
the limelight man, who had heard me speak to her, touched me gently on
the shoulder. "Beg pardon, miss, she don't mean it. She's only _chewing
gum_."
_An "Alice in Wonderland" Letter_
One of my earliest friends among literary folk was Mr. Charles
Dodgson--or Lewis Carroll--or "Alice in Wonderland." Ah, now you know
what I am talking about. I can't remember when I didn't know him. I
think he must have seen Kate act as a child, and having given her
"Alice"--he always gave his young friends "Alice" at once by way of
establishing pleasant relations--he made progress as the years went on
through the whole family. Finally he gave "Alice" to my children.
He was a splendid theatre-goer, and took the keenest interest in all
the Lyceum productions, frequently writing to me to point out slips in
the dramatist's logic which only he would ever have noticed. He did
not even spare Shakespeare. I think he wrote these letters for fun, as
some people make puzzles, anagrams, or limericks.
Mr. Dodgson's kindness to children was wonderful. He really loved them
and put himself out for them. The children he knew who wanted to go on
the stage were those who came under my observation, and nothing could
have been more touching than his ceaseless industry on their behalf.
This letter to my sister Floss is characteristic of his "Wonderland"
style when writing to children:
"My dear Florence:
"Ever since that heartless piece of conduct of yours (I allude to the
affair of the Moon and the blue silk gown), I have regarded you with
a gloomy interest, rather than with any of the affection of former
years--so that the above epithet 'dear' must be taken as conventional
only, or perhaps may be more fitly taken in the sense in which we talk
of a 'dear' bargain, meaning to imply how much it has cost us; and who
shall say how many sleepless nights it has cost me to endeavour to
unravel (a most appropriate verb) that 'blue silk gown'?
"Will you please explain to Tom about that photograph of the family
group which I promised him? Its history is an instructive one,
as illustrating my habits of care and deliberation. In 1867 the
picture was promised him, and an entry made in my book. In 1869, or
thereabouts, I mounted the picture on a large card, and packed it in
brown paper. In 1870, or 1871, or thereabouts, I took it with me to
Guildford, that it might be handy to take with me when I went up to
town. Since then I have taken it two or three times to London, and on
each occasion (having forgotten to deliver it to him) I brought it back
again.
"This was because I had no convenient place in London to leave it in.
But now I have found such a place. Mr. Dubourg has kindly taken charge
of it--so that it is now much nearer to its future owner than it has
been for seven years. I quite hope, in the course of another year or
two, to be able to remember to bring it to your house; or perhaps Mr.
Dubourg may be calling even sooner than that and take it with him. You
will wonder why I ask you to tell him instead of writing myself. The
obvious reason is that you will be able, from sympathy, to put my delay
in the most favourable light; to make him see that, as hasty puddings
are not the best of puddings, so hasty judgments are not the best of
judgments, and that he ought to be content to wait even another seven
years for his picture, and to sit 'like patience on a monument, smiling
at grief.'
[Illustration: WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE
FROM THE PAINTING BY J. MCCLURE HAMILTON, DONE AT HAWARDEN CASTLE IN
1890]
"This quotation, by the way, is altogether a misprint. Let me explain
it to you. The passage originally stood, '_They_ sit, like patients on
the Monument, smiling at Greenwich.' In the next edition 'Greenwich'
was printed short, 'Green_h_,' and so got gradually altered into
'Grief.' The allusion, of course, is to the celebrated Dr. Jenner, who
used to send all his patients to sit on the top of the Monument (near
London Bridge) to inhale fresh air, promising them that, when they
were well enough, they should go to 'Greenwich Fair.' So, of course,
they always looked out towards Greenwich, and sat smiling to think
of the treat in store for them. A play was written on the subject of
their inhaling the fresh air, and was for some time attributed to him
(Shakespeare), but it is certainly not in his style. It was called
'The Wandering Air,' and was lately revived at the Queen's Theatre.
The custom of sitting on the Monument was given up when Dr. Jenner
went mad, and insisted on it that the air was worse up there, and that
the _lower_ you went the _more airy_ it became. Hence he always called
those little yards, below the pavement, outside the kitchen windows,
'_the kitchen airier_,' a name that is still in use.
[Illustration: _Copyrighted by the London Stereoscopic Co._
LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL]
[Illustration: _Copyrighted by W. & D. Downey_
THE PRINCESS OF WALES
TO WHOM HENRY IRVING GAVE A BIRTHDAY SUPPER IN THE BEEFSTEAK ROOM OF
THE LYCEUM IN 1891]
"All this information you are most welcome to use, the next time you
are in want of something to talk about. You may say you learned it
from 'a distinguished etymologist,' which is perfectly true, since
anyone who knows me by sight can easily distinguish me from all other
etymologists.
"What parts are you and Polly now playing?
"Believe me to be (conventionally)
"Yours affectionately,
C. DODGSON."
_"Sentimental Tommy" Writes Himself_
No two men could be more unlike than Mr. Dodgson and Mr. J. M. Barrie,
yet there are more points of resemblance than "because there's a 'b'
in both!" If "Alice in Wonderland" is the children's classic of the
library, and one perhaps even more loved by the grown-up children than
by the others, "Peter Pan" is the children's stage classic, and here
again elderly children are the most devoted admirers. I am a very old
child, nearly old enough to be a "beautiful great-grandmother" (a part
that I am sure Mr. Barrie could write for me), and I go and see "Peter"
year after year and love him more each time. There is one advantage
in being a grown-up child--you are not afraid of the pirates or the
crocodile.
[Illustration: MELBA AS MARGUERITE IN "FAUST"]
I first became an ardent lover of Mr. Barrie through "Sentimental
Tommy" and I simply had to write and tell him how hugely I had enjoyed
it. In reply I received this letter from Tommy himself:
"Dear Miss Ellen Terry:
"I just wonder at you. I noticed that Mr. Barrie, the author
(so-called), and his masterful wife had a letter they wanted to conceal
from me, so I got hold of it, and it turned out to be from you, and
_not a line to me in it_! If you like the book, it is _me_ you like,
not him, and it is to me you should send your love, not to him. Corp
thinks, however, that you did not like to make the first overtures,
and if that is the explanation, I beg herewith to send you my warm
love (don't mention this to Elspeth), and to say that I wish you would
come and have a game with us in the Den (Don't let on to Grizel that I
invited you). The first moment I saw you, I said to myself 'This is the
kind I like,' and while the people round about me were only thinking of
your acting, I was wondering which would be the best way of making you
my willing slave, and I beg to say that I believe I have 'found a way,'
for most happily the very ones I want most to lord it over are the ones
who are least able to resist me.
"We should have ripping fun. You would be Jean MacGregor, captive in
the Queen's Bower, but I would climb up at the peril of my neck to
rescue you, and you would faint in my strong arms; and wouldn't Grizel
get a turn when she came upon you and me whispering sweet nothings in
the Lovers' Walk. I think it advisable to say in _writing_ that I would
only mean them as nothings (because Grizel is really my one), but so
long as they were sweet, what does that matter (at the time)? And,
besides, _you_ could love _me_ genuinely, and I would carelessly kiss
your burning tears away.
"Corp is a bit fidgetty about it, because he says I have two to love me
already, but I feel confident that I can manage more than two.
"Trusting to see you at the Cuttle Well on Saturday when the eight
o'clock bell is ringing,
"I am, Your Indulgent Commander,
"T. SANDYS.
"P. S.--Can you bring some of the Lyceum armour with you, and two
hard-boiled eggs?"
Henry Irving once thought of producing Mr. Barrie's play "The
Professor's Love Story." He was delighted with the first act, but when
he read the rest he did not think the play would do for the Lyceum.
It was the same with many plays which were proposed for us. The ideas
sounded all right, but as a rule the treatment was too thin, and the
play, even if good, on too small a scale for the theatre.