Golden Afternoon

by M. M. Kaye

  My stay at Snowdon was memorable for several reasons, one of them being that a touring theatrical company, the first I had ever come across in India, arrived in Simla and played for at least two weeks at the Gaiety Theatre. Their repertoire included a musical comedy and that grim and great play, Journey’s End. The company called themselves the Quaints — a name guaranteed, I would have said, to put off the most enthusiastic theatre-goer. But they turned out to be far from quaint, and Judy and I were bowled over by them. One of them, a young man who sang and danced in the musical offering and took the part of the hero-worshipping young officer who gets killed at the end of the last act of Journey’s End, was to make a great name for himself on both stage and screen: he was the future Sir John Mills. I can’t claim to have recognized his performance as particularly outstanding, because we thought they were all outstanding, and Judy and I, reeling under the impact of such excellence and professionalism, were horrified by the fact that contrary to the time-honoured practice of all the amateur dramatic shows, no floral tributes were handed up to the actresses at the final curtain. This injustice would have to be put right.

  We hurried back to Snowdon seething with indignation and, first thing next morning, sent for the head mali and gave detailed instructions as to baskets that were to be bought in the bazaar, and filled with the best flowers that the garden and the glasshouses could produce. These must be ready in time to be handed in at the stage door of the Gaiety Theatre at such and such an hour that evening, and a chupprassi was detailed to take them in one of the Snowdon rickshaws. Our combined pocket-money did not run to the boxes of chocolates which often accompanied the leading lady’s flowers but we could manage the baskets and the ribbon, and the mali and assistants surpassed themselves. The floral tributes were a great success.

  The only other thing that I remember with great clearness about the Quaints’ visits to Simla was that on one of the nights, returning from the theatre through a blanket of thick monsoon mist and drizzle down the winding, tree-lined drive that led to the side entrance of Snowdon, the two leading jampanis of the four who pulled my rickshaw suddenly stopped dead, and, dropping the shaft, retreated to join those at the back, leaving me looking out into a misty darkness illuminated only by the blurred yellow lights of a pair of rickshaw lamps.

  In rainy weather the rickshaws were enclosed in waterproof hoods and coverings that left the occupant dry, but gave him or her only a narrow slice of rain-spattered glass to see through. The jampanis too were protected from the wet by long capes and hoods of mackintosh, and all rickshaws were fitted with a pair of oil-lamps that were lit after dark. Judy’s rickshaw was ahead of mine and I could see, past my own lamps, two faint jogging blobs of yellow that were her rickshaw lamps vanish into the dripping misty darkness. I couldn’t think why my own had stopped so abruptly until a movement just beyond the small circle of light caught my attention. Something that showed pale against the blackness of the dense forest of rhododendron, oak and deodar lining the edge of the steep bank on my right. Something yellow and spotted, and with two brilliant points of green light that, as they moved, caught and reflected the light of the rickshaw lamps …

  It was a leopard, returning from foraging on the hillside above, which had been checked by the passing of Judy’s rickshaw, and would probably have waited to let my own go by if the jampanis hadn’t happened to spot it and dropped the shaft to take refuge behind me. That sudden stop had obviously alarmed the leopard more than the sight of it had alarmed the jampanis, for it hesitated for a full minute, its tail twitching angrily, obviously wondering whether to turn and go up the hillside. Then, abruptly making up its mind, it sprang down on to the road immediately in front of me, paused for a brief moment to turn its head and stare straight at me, unblinkingly, with those brilliant green eyes, before vanishing silently into the misty darkness below the far side of the drive.

  My valiant jampanis gave it a moment or two to get clear before emerging discreetly — looking extremely sheepish — and we set off after Judy, who wanted to know what had held us up. I said that we had prudently waited to give right of way to a leopard, and Judy merely remarked that the woods were full of them. She was right, of course. In those days India was full of leopards and during my years there I saw a good many of them. But that one is forever bracketed in my memory with Simla, the Gaiety Theatre, and a touring theatrical company called the Quaints.

  * Since this was over half a century ago, I feel it is now ‘time expired’.

  * Kuds: hillsides.

  Chapter 22

  Chris Birdwood’s production of Faust was, as far as I remember, in the following summer. This, then, would have been the year in which Judy asked me to stay with her, so that we could work on the scenery and costumes, and I eventually stayed on in Simla with several other friends in order to do the same for two or three other amateur dramatic shows.

  Judy and I were given a free hand with the dresses and sets, and everything else was up to Chris, who was at that time masquerading as an ADC to his father, the Commander-in-Chief. He did not appear to be doing a stroke of work in that line, and seemed to spend his days lying on a sofa in the drawing-room at Snowdon, reading sheet music. I suspect his appointment (which was pure nepotism) was due to prolonged nagging on the part of his doting mother, dear Lady Birdwood, and that Sir William must have given in after a hard struggle. But at least when it came to pulling strings, Chris was in an excellent position.

  He managed to borrow the Viceroy’s band, complete with bandmaster, to act as orchestra, and had no difficulty in rounding up all the best singers available. And a very talented lot they turned out to be. I wish I had had the sense to keep a programme, but I didn’t so I don’t remember the name of anyone who took part, except for the one who took the part of Marguerite, a Lady Crosthwaite, of whom more later. Nor do I remember why the opera was staged in Davico’s ballroom and not in the Gaiety Theatre; probably because the Gaiety was fully booked for the season by the time Chris decided that he would like to have a stab at Faust. In fact, Davico’s made an excellent and much more commodious theatre, for it boasted a large gallery at one end that doubled as a dress circle, and the stage at the other end was quite as large as, if not larger than the Gaiety’s.

  It had no facilities for painting scenery, but we were allowed to use the Gaiety’s, and Judy and I spent the larger part of each day in overalls, sloshing paint on to canvas. We had decided on a very dark setting for Act I, which was to be Faust’s study — a Tudor-style chimneypiece off-centre (large enough for Mephistopheles to step through), the walls covered with tapestry, and only two pieces of furniture: a table and a chair.

  The chimney had been easy enough, but our medieval tapestry looked too obtrusive and we didn’t know how to tone it down, until I had a sudden brainwave. The studio at the Gaiety was properly equipped for scene painting, which, for the benefit of the uninitiated, consisted of two rooms, one above the other; the upper with the slit cut in the floor which allowed you to lower the entire backcloth through it, so that you didn’t have to stand on a chair or a ladder to reach the bit you wanted to paint, but just lowered it (the canvas was fastened to a roll that could be turned by a handle, so that you could sit or stand to paint whatever part of it you wanted). We let down our far-too-gaudy tapestry, so that only a small part of the top remained visible, and then emptied along it the contents of the buckets of dirty paint water in which we had been washing our brushes. It could have been a disaster, but in fact worked a treat. The water poured down across our stylized over-bright trees, castles and huntsmen, fleeing deer and pursuing hounds, toning them down drastically, but leaving them still visible, so that the whole backcloth looked as though it was hung with a superb and very ancient and dusty tapestry.

  The only other bit of scene painting that posed problems was the scene in the cathedral, where Marguerite prays to a statue of the Virgin, which keeps on turning into Mephistopheles. We got stuck over this for some time, but another rare brainwave so
lved it triumphantly. We cut an oblong slice out of a cathedral pillar, stretched coarse grey net across it, and fixed a wide tube of heavy black cloth to the back of the whole thing, plus red electric lights that could be operated manually when needed. Mephistopheles would be wearing a black velvet cloak lined with red satin, and the idea was that he would stand on a pedestal inside the black tube, with his cloak wrapped about him so that none of the scarlet showed. When the footlights were on (and the red lights inside the tube off), no one would see him, and when they were faded out and the red lights came on, he would drop the black cloak and be seen clearly through the net. Well, the red lights worked all right, but unfortunately the oblong in the pillar was still glaringly visible as an unexplained niche of black from the moment the curtains went up. No amount of grey paint on the net disguised it, and the general opinion was that we had better scrap the hole in the pillar, fill it in with canvas and settle for Mephistopheles stepping out from behind it whenever the score called for it. Fortunately — or perhaps unfortunately — my brain clicked into action and produced a beautiful solution. This too worked like a dream.

  We cut the oblong into a pointed niche and painted the canvas to look as though it had a carved stone edging, and I chalked a coloured statuette of the Madonna on to the net with coloured pastels. It is always a thrill when a far-fetched gimmick actually works in practice, and I admit to being slightly stunned at the success of this one. The footlights caught the pastels, and the Madonna looked as solid as though she had been carved out of marble. But when the red lights behind the net were gradually brought up and the footlights faded out, it looked exactly as though the statue was turning into the devil. It was a wild success. The only snag was that I had to draw the whole thing all over again, and in frantic haste, before the curtain went up on that scene. It proved impossible to shift the scenery without shaking the net; and as soon as it was shaken the pastel came off the net in puffs of coloured chalk. I redrew the Madonna at least ten times in six evening performances, two matinées, the dress rehearsal and a couple of trial runs in order to co-ordinate the bringing up and fading out of the footlights with those inside the pillar. I got pretty good at it, I can tell you! There is, however, a snarky and well-known saying to the effect that ‘pride goes before a fall’ and mine was doomed to bite the dust.

  The Viceroy had been holding a Governors’ conference in Simla that week, and it had seemed a good idea to someone or other to suggest that His Excellency should bring all his gilded Governors to see the final performance, and advertise it as a special performance in aid of famine relief. His Excellency, probably only too willing to have this pack of VIPs taken off his hands for one evening, consented and, as soon as that news got around, there was a scramble for seats. Everyone who was anyone wanted to be there, and one could safely say that if the terrorist wing of the Quit India Movement had managed to toss a bomb into Davico’s ballroom that night, the Raj would have come to a grinding halt there and then.

  Just think of it! The Governors of every single province in the land, together with the Commander-in-Chief, India, and any number of Members of Council and other assorted bigwigs, headed by the Viceroy himself. It was equivalent to the entire royal family, the Prime Minister and his Cabinet, and the leaders of the armed forces and heads of police and intelligence, all gathered together under one roof, and you can imagine what a dither the cast was in. Not to mention the harassed chaps who were responsible for security.

  Everyone’s nerves were slightly on edge, but any tension Judy and I might have suffered was relieved by one of our amateur scene-shifters. These were all members of the Viceroy’s band, and by this time they all knew the score backwards and could have taken over from the prompter without a qualm. This one was obviously word-perfect, for carrying a heavy roll of canvas across the stage, he tripped on a piece of carpet and came a terrific cropper. Sitting up dazedly and tenderly feeling his chin, he did not, as expected, come out with a few forceful words, but intoned instead in a mournful baritone: ‘Never will I trust me powers again!’ It was a quotation from something that Mephistopheles says to Faust: (‘If she prefer your flowers to these gems, never will I trust my powers again!’) and it sent Judy and me off into helpless giggles. Which was just as well, for the rest of the show was a nightmare.

  The house began to fill up, the VIPs arrived, and so eventually did the Viceroy. But back-stage, panic was raging — the so-and-so who was playing Mephistopheles (I’ve no idea what his name was so I shall call him Mr M.) had not arrived. Frantic phone calls failed to trace him. There was no question of an understudy being sent on instead, for the drawback to ambitious amateurs in a small town putting on an opera is that there is not likely to be more than one really good tenor, baritone, bass or soprano to be found in a restricted community. In fact one is lucky to be able to produce one of each!

  Poor Chris was nearly demented, and he was preparing to go out in front of the curtain and say that he was terribly sorry, but the show would have to be cancelled, when (most unfortunately) Mr M. turned up — tight as a newt. Totally, gloriously, absolutely plastered. I still don’t know why the producer and the more senior members of the cast didn’t give up at once and scrub the whole thing. But I imagine that their collective nerve failed them at the thought of having to go out and inform the distinguished (and by now impatient) gathering that the baritone was higher than a kite and in no condition to appear before them, so would they please all go home. Instead, they attempted to delay the proceedings by getting the band to play the overture twice, while some of them alternately pushed Mr M.’s head into a bucket of cold water and forced him to drink black coffee, while others did their best to get him into his costume, all of which he took with the greatest good humour.

  The house-lights went out and the band launched into the overture for the third time, and we were off!

  Fortunately for everyone concerned, there were not that many people in the audience who were familiar with Faust, and no one seemed to have noticed that the overture was an exceptionally lengthy one and taken at a somewhat leisurely pace. Or that there was an over-long gap between its final chord and the parting of the curtains. Since this was the last night, I had no worries about the scenery and the costumes. I knew they were all right, because I had watched every performance, and had plenty of time to alter anything that hadn’t worked in practice. Visually, the whole thing was a triumph, and Judy and I, feeling justly proud of ourselves, had been smugly anticipating an impressive spate of compliments from the last-night audience. But we had not been prepared for the mayhem that one intoxicated performer can create when well and truly flootered. Nor, alas, had the rest of the cast; having begun the evening feeling every bit as smug and certain of success as Judy and I were, they had been thrown into a dither by the failure of one of their stars to turn up and, by the time the curtain went up and they realized what they were in for, were all in a state of near panic.

  Faust, who under the circumstances had the most reason for being anxious, was not in his usual good voice, but he did his best, and all went well until the entry of the villain of the piece. Judy and I had been particularly proud of the way we had worked the conjuring up of the devil, and on every previous performance it had gone like a breeze. Faust had to fling down one of those flash-fireworks (a jazzed-up version of the things we call partarkas) and Mr M., who was standing behind the black curtains at the back of the Tudor fireplace, peering through a narrow chink between them as he waited for his cue, had only to step forward, flinging wide his black, scarlet-lined cloak, as the flash went off and the audience automatically flinched back and shut their eyes against the glare … And there was the devil — conjured up out of darkness and thin air! It had always gone splendidly. But not tonight.

  The flash, as ever, went off beautifully. But when the audience stopped blinking, nothing had changed. Faust was mouthing wildly at the prompter, as though hoping for some assistance from there, and a muffled and furious voice could be heard expostula
ting with someone in the wings. The next moment, Mephistopheles shot on to the stage head first, propelled with some violence by an infuriated hand on his back, and having regained his balance, strolled amiably on towards centre stage, nodded affably to the audience and waved merrily to the unfortunate conductor (I can’t remember whether Chris was actually in the hot seat that night or whether it was the bandmaster) to indicate that he could start. Surprisingly, he was in tremendous, though slightly erratic, form. Alcohol imparted a distinctly fruity edge to his voice, and the audience gave him a tremendous hand. Only those who had seen the show before realized that his entrance had not been all it should.

  We brushed through the next act pretty well, and once again, only those in the know realized that there was anything untoward. Allowances are, in any case, made for amateurs. I don’t suppose many of the audience that night were familiar with the opera, and the rest do not seem to have noticed anything odd about the extremely exuberant behaviour of our Mephistopheles. After all, why shouldn’t the devil be pleased with himself?

  We sailed through the next couple of acts, with a terrific display of high spirits and not too many missed cues and musical gaffes on the part of Mephistopheles, and Judy and I had begun to breathe again when along came my pièce-de-résistance in the Cathedral. I re-drew my Madonna and besought the stage manager to try to persuade Mr M. to stand still — which he had always done before, though I had my doubts as to his ability to do so tonight. And how right I was. To begin with, he took a dislike to being incarcerated in the tube of black cloth at the back of the pillar, and in the end had to be put there forcibly. Annoyed by this, he flung back his black velvet cloak, displaying its brilliant satin lining, and when Marguerite, played by Lady Crosthwaite (who in addition to a well trained soprano voice, possessed a character on the lines of that formidable battle-axe, my Aunt Molly, and was known by one and all to be exceedingly quick on the draw), launched into her prayer to the Virgin, he behaved abominably. Discovering, as though for the first time, that the net in front of him was thick with coloured chalks, he began to flick it off in little puffs of powder; and when that palled (by which time there was little left of my statue) he stuck his head out of the side of the pillar and, having spotted various friends in the audience, yoo-hoo-ed cheerfully at them. I could have killed him. I really could. And so could Lady Crosthwaite, who, on her knees by the footlights, couldn’t see what was happening above her head but realized that the audience was beginning to laugh.