Twopence Coloured

by Patrick Hamilton

  The play was to have a four weeks’ try-out in the southern counties, and then, it was hoped, they would get in at the Coburg. Mr. Banton reserved the right to produce this play.

  II

  Mr. Banton was a bustling little man of about forty-five, with pince-nez, untidy clothes, and flowing hair which he ruffled excitedly but gracefully when being a Queer Little Genius. But he was only a Queer Little Genius about three times a day, and he didn’t remain one for more than half a minute or so, and his friends could afford to wait in patience until he returned to the detail suspended by these spasms.

  He was classed, essentially, as a “little man.” People would not have done this to him if he had not talked such a lot, for he was not much beneath the average height; but as things were he was garrulously and beyond redemption little. He had offices in John Street, where he was surrounded by caricatures of himself (his one palpable vanity); posters of “Mr. Policeman” (the operetta upon his association with which he had founded his rather precarious reputation as a producer); a telephone apparatus with any number of indicating gadgets (sources of never-failing delight to him); and a typing-and-office girl to whom he made love spasmodically but with success. He drank about a pint and a half of whisky and soda each night, and about half a pint of “the-hair-of-the-dog-old-boy-you-know” next morning. He had hardly ever been seen the worse for drink, but continually the better. His worst moments were at tea-time, when he became rather greasy and irritable.

  Mr. Banton had an affectionate nature, a pathetic longing for popularity, an inner divination that the greater part of his friends referred to him as “that foul little swine, Banton”: and production, with Mr. Banton, was one glorious and palpitating make-believe. Make-believe that he was a producer and engaged in a serious and recognized business. “After all, this is Business, old boy, isn’t it?” he would say, very firmly. But the next moment he would be blurting out, “I say, old boy, what about doing all that scene in black tabs?” and his eyes would be alight with schoolboy’s awe and wonder at the contemplated lark. “Not a bad idea, old boy, you know,” he would add, and the hearts of the imaginative would go out to Mr. Banton.

  Of all joys in the immeasurable joys of this make-believe, the joy of casting won the day with Mr. Banton. This, in the case of “The Knocking at the Gate,” he did in conjunction with Richard, and accomplished it in three days. The first call was on a Tuesday morning at a place known as the Lovat Rehearsal Hall. This was not far from Great Portland Street and had originally been a Methodist chapel. It was run by a young man named Lovat, who got you into corners, handed you his card, and told you how well he was doing. Dancing Lessons and Boy Scouts also occurred at this hall. You were continually finding yourself intruding on the last ebullient phases of Boy Scouts, and perpetually being driven forth by the diffident importunities of Dancing Lessons. Boy Scouts and Dancing Lessons also had some difficulty with each other. In fact the young man named Lovat had an awkward time of it — what with “The Knocking at the Gate,” and Dancing Lessons and Boy Scouts. And he carried on a flirtation with Higher Thought, as well, which very nearly finished him. But he had some knowledge of the vanities of this world.

  III

  Jackie had a clear sense of restarting her theatrical career as she went by herself (for Richard was as usual with Mr. Banton) to the Lovat Rehearsal Hall for her first rehearsal.

  She was at last, she thought, in touch with her profession. She was playing in an intelligent and comprehensible play, and with West End actors of established worth and reputation. Her own part was good enough, with scope for creative exertion, and the acting itself would no longer be (as it had been in all her previous engagements) a mere accessory to the undertaking of performance, but the whole object of her endeavours. She was at last (she trusted) to be an artist.

  She arrived early at the dusty, bare-boarded little hall, and found there the stage-manager, his assistant, and Miss Bella Starkey. She fell into light conversation with these. She was interested and slightly shocked to meet Miss Starkey, that lady having reached the height of her fame during Jackie’s schooldays. Her name had been, indeed, a household word with Jackie: and this middle-aged and unsuccessful woman before her, with the over-blue and watery eyes of the advanced spiritualist, and an extreme affability which was still graciousness to those who remembered her triumphs (but ingratiation to those who had superseded them), chilled Jackie’s conceptions of success.

  The rest of the company arrived one by one. There was Mr. Plaice, a tall, slim, grey-haired, monocled, perfect gentleman of about fifty-one — lately belauded in the Press for his perfect delivery of English — in the habit of walking daily down the Haymarket with an ill countenance but a consciousness of perfection — and getting less famous, but more tall and slim and monocled and perfect, every year. There was Mr. Grayson, in whom Jackie recognized the glove-puncher she had met on her first night in any theatrical dressing-room, and who had doubtless been punching his way through the years without stoppage, for he was punching more than ever as he entered. There was Miss Elinor Potts, obscurely related to the famous author, Verril Potts, and resembling a tall and very superior housekeeper of about forty-eight. There was Mr. Gerald Gifford, a dark brown, well-equipped and handsome young man, whose first appearance in legitimate drama this was, his activities having been hitherto confined to musical comedy. And there was Mr. Manlove, a gentleman of about sixty wearing an auburn toupé which caused much resentment. It caused resentment because toupés invariably awake resentment, never pity, in mankind; and because Mr. Manlove’s toupé was a rather grubby one.

  By the time all these, and a few others, had arrived, a great murmuring noise had been set in flow, Miss Starkey had deserted Jackie with a “Hullo-o! How are you?” to Mr. Plaice, chairs were being put shriekingly into position by the A.S.M., and chaos was reigning all round, until, like a rap on the table at a public dinner, Mr. Banton arrived with the author, Mr. Gissing, and complete silence fell. This slowly rose to a new murmuring as the soul became hardened to the impressiveness of Mr. Banton and the author — the former introducing the latter, all round, with considerable pride. “Here’s the fellow we’re all going to murder‚” he said.

  This not inaccurate statement was treated as an excellent piece of fun, and a benign atmosphere fell, until all at once Mr. Banton whispered to the stage-manager, who shouted, “Scene one, act one, please!” Whereat a stern, self-abasing atmosphere fell…. Which was followed by various mumblings on the part of Mr. Plaice and Mr. Banton — which was followed by Mr. Plaice coming forward, with his nose in his part, and speaking the first line of the play. Which was all wrong, and had to be done again…. Which wasn’t quite right, either, when you came to think of it, because that chair was all wrong. Also Mr. Plaice thought it was the settee. No, no. Not the settee. The armchair. At least it was the armchair, wasn’t it? Let’s have a squint at the script. Here we are. Yes. That was right. Armchair. “Sorry, Plaice, old boy.” “No — my fault.” “Well, let’s start again, shall we?” … “Damn sorry, Plaice, old boy — but you’re coming in Right now. It ought to be left.” “Well, it’s marked ‘right’ here.” “Well, it shouldn’t be.” “Well, it is. Look here.” “No, it isn’t, old boy. There’s L. for you.” “Where’s L.? — Oh yes. Sorry.” “Doesn’t matter, old boy. We’ve just got to work at these positions this morning. Let’s shoot.” … “No, you mustn’t Sit on that, old boy!” “Not sit?” “No — I want you to sit later.” “He’s going to drink standing, then?” “Yes. You can drink standing, can’t you? SORRY, old boy!” “No, that’s all right.” “Of course, sit if you WANT to, old boy. If you feel it that way.” “No, that’s all right.” “I mean it’s an armchair, after all, old boy, and you’ve got to get up in a moment.” “Yes. That’s all right. I don’t want to sit….”

  At this point Mr. Banton observed that the door was open.

  “Here! Shut that door!” he shouted. “Shut that door! Shut that door! What d’ you think yo
u’re doing?”

  He spoke most sharply to the A.S.M., who scuttered to the door. There was a solemn pause as the door was shut, and the sharpness of Mr. Banton’s tone was held to be justifiable by all.

  This was owing to the large band of hypothetical malignants lingering (without doubt) in the doorway, with the intent of taking down every line and gesture of this play in shorthand, and dashing away with the glorious news.

  But they were foiled in time, and the rehearsal proceeded.

  IV

  Quarrelling time was not reached until about the tenth day of rehearsal, but then the various duels to the death were carried on more or less in the open. There were three leading duels to the death — Jackie Mortimer vs. Miss Bella Starkey and Miss Elinor Potts — Mr. Plaice vs. Mr. Grayson — and Mr. Rackett (the stage-manager) vs. Mr. Gerald Gifford.

  The first of these — Mortimer vs. Starkey and Potts — arose from a conviction burdening Miss Potts, and communicated to Miss Starkey (who had always had the conviction), that Miss Starkey should be playing Miss Mortimer’s part. This she most certainly should have been doing (as Jackie herself knew); but the news of the sedition, when it reached her ears, taken in conjunction with the manifest lunching, go-back-together-to-rooms alliance of the two ladies (those sinister stage alliances!), and the humiliation already suffered from the obvious slur of being the wife of the author, awoke Jackie’s resentment. This was the least emphatic of the three duels, and only made itself noticeable (at its worst) either by Miss Starkey announcing joyously to Mr. Banton, with respect to Jackie, and in front of her, that this little girl, of course, was coming on quite too well for words; or by Miss Potts telling Jackie that Miss Starkey was too wonderful, wasn’t she, and one could learn More about Acting by simply watching her … or by Jackie telling Miss Potts that Miss Starkey, if the truth was known, ought to have her (Jackie’s) part…. No more blood was spilt than that, though that was quite enough.

  The next of these duels — Mr. Plaice vs. Mr. Grayson — was more serious. This arose from a conviction burdening Mr. Grayson that Mr. Plaice, with his Thousand and One Old Actor’s Tricks, was endeavouring to Queer him. But if the actual tricks from which Mr. Grayson claimed to be suffering were subtracted from this enormous amount, there would have been precisely one thousand left. For the sole complaint Mr. Grayson could succeed in lodging against Mr. Plaice, was that infinitely stale grouse against your confrère for keeping (like a cad) up-stage, so that the scene was played to him, instead of keeping (like a gentleman) down-stage, so that the scene was played to you. These subtleties were the cause of great bitterness, which culminated in one of the nastiest little scraps (apart from the quarrel outright) to be seen in the rehearsal room.

  This took place in the middle of a long afternoon in the middle of the second week, and awoke a kind of hell-born joy in the breasts of those who witnessed it.

  MR. GRAYSON (affably). “Would you mind coming downstage just a bit, old boy? I think it ’d be better.”

  (Unpleasant pause.)

  MR. PLAICE (pulling himself together). “No. Not at all. (Coming down.) Here?”

  MR. GRAYSON. “Yes. I’m only thinking of the good of the play, old boy.”

  MR. PLAICE (looking interestedly at his part). “Yes. I’m sure you are.”

  (Singularly unpleasant pause.)

  MR. GRAYSON (appealing to Mr. Banton). “That’s all right, isn’t it, Jerry?”

  MR. BANTON (at a loss). “Yes. That’s all right. Keep it like that.”

  MR. GRAYSON (to Mr. Plaice). “I’m only thinking of the Scene, you know, old boy.”

  MR. PLAICE (more interested in his part than ever — positively turning over pages of it). “Well, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  (Quite overbearingly unpleasant and prolonged pause. Air palpably shuddering. Singing sensations in ears experienced.)

  MR. BANTON. “Well, let’s see…. Where were we? … Let’s take that again….”

  The third of these duels — Mr. Rackett vs. Mr. Gerald Gifford — was even more deadly still. It proved fatal, in fact. Mr. Rackett was the aggressor in this case, having taken a dislike to Mr. Gifford for several reasons, uppermost amongst which was the fact that he (Mr. Rackett) had been dismissed, eight months ago, from the stage-management of a musical show in which Mr. Gifford had appeared with success. Mr. Rackett believed that Mr. Gifford had given publicity to this fact. He had. This duel reached a crisis on the twelfth day of rehearsal, and Mr. Rackett won the day.

  It happened in the morning. Mr. Banton was absent, and Mr. Rackett, as stage-manager, was holding the script. Mr. Rackett was a heavy, dark man of about forty, with a long nose which he employed for the purpose of ironic sniffing. He was a perfect Anatole France in his nose, was Mr. Rackett, being able to put every type of sarcastic dig into his breath — from a real animal pull (which was his bludgeon) down to a delicate, eighteenth-century perfumed intake (which was his rapier). And he could put his tongue into his cheek, to all sorts of different extents, and suggest a thousand middle shades of withering opinion.

  “Do you always keep your hands in your pockets, Mr. Gifford?” asked Mr. Rackett.

  “No. Why?” asked Mr. Gifford. He blushed.

  Mr. Rackett said that he thought perhaps he did — that was all…. The smashing irony of this deserved a sniff, and got it.

  “This isn’t musical comedy we’re in now, you know,” added Mr. Rackett….

  Mr. Gifford said that he hadn’t said it was….

  “Oh‚” said Mr. Rackett….

  The rehearsal proceeded.

  That night Mr. Gifford left the cast. This was not owing to any difference of opinion with Mr. Rackett, but merely because he was not Happy in the Part, and would rather Stand Down. A great fuss was made of these sentiments, which were brought to the ears of the company, and the young man departed in an exquisite and roseate glow of Unhappiness…. The conspicuousness of his absence that morning gave scope for just that warm-hearted sympathy (with a dash of highmindedness) so needful to the collective theatrical mind. It was pounced on eagerly, as there hadn’t been much highmindedness at present.

  Curiously enough, three weeks after these events, the young man in question committed suicide by leaving on the gas in his room. This, it may be said, was not due to Mr. Rackett’s irony. But the company was horrified. Miss Potts even went so far as to make references to Mr. Rackett’s Shoes, in which, she declared, she would not like to be. As for Mr. Rackett, he wouldn’t have exchanged his Shoes for anyone’s. He had the time of his life, and played it heavily and with considerable effect. He was sorry, Genuinely Sorry, he said, that he had Gone Roughly with the boy. He reverted to the thing perpetually in bars of an evening. He was very conceited. He might have committed suicide himself, the way he went on.

  V

  The first date for “The Knocking at the Gate” was at Ramsgate, and the dress-rehearsal began at a quarter to three on a Sunday at the Ramsgate theatre. It ended at eight.

  A pretty deadly time of day, and day of week, and town of England in which to dress-rehearse, and a pretty deadly dress-rehearsal. It was far from pleasant to play to Mr. Banton’s glinting but unresponsive pince-nez in the tenth row of the stalls: and it was far from pleasant to find yourself, in the glare of the floats, shouting at your friends’ chromatically unfamiliar faces into a hollow auditorium, which either made no response to your effects whatever, or filled in your pauses with the rather brusque and unimpressed pail-clankings of an obdurately unshooshable charlady in the gallery…. And it was not pleasant to wait about in the passages and on the cold stage of the Ramsgate theatre during the changing of the scenes — which changings never took less than twenty minutes to perform, and were carried through with imprecations, bangs, foulings, hammerings, cries and grunts, as though they were all in a ship which was going down in the night…. And Mr. Banton’s notebook, in between the scenes, was not any more pleasant, either, and his complete overthrow of courtesy no less distastefu
l for being allowable and traditional….

  “… And you’re the worst of all, Manlove. You’ve got to speak up, man. I can’t hear a syllable…. And you, Miss Potts. You’re pitched far too high. Simpering. You’re supposed to be grim. You’re playing it like an ingénue…. You’re got to stop that wriggling with your hands, Mrs. Gissing; it’s getting on one’s nerves…. That’s very good, Plaice, but get a bit more speed into that telephone scene. We’re playing years too long already….”

  It was very hard to keep one’s temper, but there was only one dangerous lapse. This was in the second act, when Mr. Plaice, after having been prompted by Mr. Rackett, against his wishes, and quite unnecessarily, but very dramatically and hoarsely, for a long time, all at once arrested the rehearsal to lift his eyes to God and say “Thank you. So much.”

  That “Thank you. So much” was a sudden flash of lightning illuminating for one sharp moment the ghastly abysses from which they were all kept only by the Herculean exercise of self-restraint. It may be observed in passing that actors always say Thank you when they are beginning to get angry, but for this particular Thank you Mr. Rackett never forgave Mr. Plaice, reviling his acting and character, in bar conversations, for the rest of his life. Also he more effectively punished him next week, and during the tour, by making him dress with Mr. Manlove. (Mr. Manlove would otherwise have been thrust upon Mr. Gray son.) The dressing-room card, which he personally wrote and vindictively pinned on the door, read:

  MR. M ANLOVE