Mr. Plaice
— which was a pretty strong disciplinary measure.
“Er — where am I dressing, please?” asked Mr. Plaice.
“In here, Mr. Plaice, with Mr. Manlove,” said Mr. Rackett, sharply opening the door, and went away with a sardonic grin and murmurs about these Blasted West End Actors behaving like Funny Old Women over their dressing-rooms.
That night, after the rehearsal, there was a general invitation to the men at the large hotel where Mr. Banton and Jackie and Richard were staying; and, with a corner of the lounge to themselves, an affectionate state of intoxication was reached. It was, in fact, Old Boy this and Old Boy that until midnight.
They had never Heard of such things (Old Boy) in all their careers.
Things (hang it all, Old Boy) weren’t worth their whiles, were they (Old Boy)? They Asked them now?
They knew Old Boys would never possibly Credit it, but there you were.
Old Boys could not only credit it, but could quote similar soul-shattering experiences.
And Old Boys Only wanted to Appeal to the Logic of Old Boys.
They were impotent. They Meant to Say, Old Boy, Damn it.
VI
On Monday evening, two hours before the show commenced, there was a call on the dim-lit stage for words in Scene 2, Act 1, and this was united with the Mutual Congratulations (or Highmindedness) Call, which had been tacitly expected of Mr. Banton.
The last word was said, and the company began to disperse. “Oh — just one moment,” said Mr. Banton.
The company paused.
“Just one moment. Call that couple back, will you, Rackett?”
“Mr. Manlove!” cried Mr. Rackett. “Mr. Manlove! Mr. Grayson!”
“Hullo!” from the passage.
“Just one moment.”
The couple returned with interested but scared expressions.
“Won’t keep you a moment,” said Mr. Banton. Mr. Banton quietly lit a cigarette. “Just want to say something, though. While you’re all here.”
An austere silence fell upon all.
“Don’t know that there’s — much to say,” said Mr. Banton, puffing at his cigarette; and silence was more austere than ever. Mr. Banton looked at the ground….
“I suppose I just want to — thank you — really — for the absolutely — splendid way — in which you’ve all worked together for the good of the show. Honestly — honestly — and I’m not codding — I can not remember ever having worked with such a really fine lot — such a fine lot for pulling together. It’s been splendid. You’ve all been splendid.”
At this the company, along with Mr. Banton, bowed their heads respectfully to the ground, as those who uncover before a passing coffin.
“We may have had our difficulties — I don’t deny we have,” said Mr. Banton….
The mourners did not deny it.
“Nobody would deny that we have,” added Mr. Banton, firmly, and as though that was a great point. “But we’ve pulled through and really got the thing into excellent shape. I don’t care who says we haven’t. But what I want to say is, we could never have done what I’ve done — what we’ve done — unless I’d had your really fine co-operation. I may not have shown how much I’ve felt all this during production, but the feeling’s been there all the same. All I can say is that the whole thing’s been carried through, from beginning to end, in, well — let’s say the Real British Spirit — honestly — the Real British Spirit.”
At this there was a decline of the burial service atmosphere, and a kind of mental Union Jack was hoisted, amid mental cheers. Also an extraordinary impression that this play had been written, and was now about to be acted, for God, King and Country (at great personal risk), was to be gained from the faces of the company. Instead, however, of expanding upon Outposts of Empire, and Hands Across the Sea, as Mr. Banton’s statesmanlike and defiant stance suggested he was going to do, he struck a humorous note.
“I know I’ve been awful. I know you must have wanted to throw me out of the window at times (Mr. Banton tittered, and the company smiled in a sickly and repudiating manner), but I really think we got on very well on the whole. And I want to thank you, for the author, and for myself, for the really splendid way in which you’ve seen it through.”
It was now obvious that Mr. Banton desired to thank the company.
“I don’t know how they’ll treat us to-night,” said Mr. Banton, clearly perorating. “I don’t know how they’ll treat us in London. That’s in the hands of the gods. But all I can say is — that I thank you — really sincerely — for your really fine co-operation. And that’s all.”
Whereat a series of appreciative but abortive grunts, and an attempt on Miss Potts’s part to say that she was Sure of something (which was left in the dark, but which was undoubtedly very tender), and another attempt, on Mr. Man-love’s part, to say that he was Sure they All Felt something (which was also kept in the dark, but which was undoubtedly very reciprocative), and the emergence, from mumblings on the part of Mr. Plaice, of the single word “Thank,” and the corresponding emergence, from similar mumblings on the part of Miss Starkey, of the words “You, Mr. Banton” — formed the sole response to Mr. Banton’s human little endeavour.
Mr. Banton then went off, talking to Mr. Rackett, and the company dispersed in a silent and slightly shamefaced manner, as though they had all been caught kissing each other in the passages, and Mr. Banton had, very rightly, given them a lecture about it.
VII
“The Knocking at the Gate” played to £30 (mostly circle) and a good deal of paper that night, and was accorded the automatic ovation of a try-out first night — the curtain rising and falling twelve times at the end, and revealing twelve different groupings of actors, who, in the seven minutes to which the ovation ran, dragged each other on, ran away from each other, assumed charming despair when left alone, and gave a general effect of having a rather nice and nudging game of hide-and-seek in the wings. There were then several cries of “Thor! Thor!” as well as one or two slightly peculiar (and possibly ironic) cries of “Honkore! Honkore!” from a slightly drunken man in the gallery…. Whether this slightly drunken man thought that they were going to do the play again, for him, was not quite known. (Anyway, such a thing was quite out of the question.) There was then some more applause, after which the author came on and made a speech, which was applauded, and then the curtain fell for the last time. Whereat the orchestra, without hesitation, played:
God — save — our — Gray — shusking!
Long — live — our — No — bullking!
God — Save — Our King-g-g-g-g-g
(Prum!)
— which piece of curtailed and abrupt loyalty was neither brought forth in a prayerful spirit, nor very highly relevant to the matter. It served, however, as a kind of “Come along. All over. Get along out with you” to the audience, and there was soon nothing to hear or see in the front of the theatre save the gentlemen of the orchestra — who wiped their moustaches, coughed, wrapped green things round their instruments, and made murmuring and stamping noises under the stage.
It being a notable if undesirable fact that most phases of ebullience on this planet must perforce conclude with coughs, moustache-wipings, and green things round instruments — or their equivalent.
VIII
There was, of course, a call next morning, and a certain amount of cards were laid upon the table. The general feeling, though, was one of satisfaction.
There were the most exuberant notices in the local Press, and an excellent notice in the “Era.” A firm belief that they would Just Get Out all right, uplifted the management — which suffered from that revealing yearning to get Out of every town it has purposely entered common to touring managements. They dropped, however, seventy pounds.
There was, indeed, a marked apathy in this seaside town towards “The Knocking at the Gate”— an apathy which was not to be shaken by an infinite number of throw-outs, in the shape of a door-
knocker, left about in shops and bars and lounges all over the town — nor yet by a large advertisement in the local paper, surrounded by Bicycle advertisements, and reading.
HAVE YOU HEARD THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE?
and portraying a tense but rather badly printed pair of lovers in the act of catching the terrible sound.
Nor was there any spiritual invigoration for the management forthcoming from the innumerable letters received from critics and individuals in the locality.
There was, for instance, this type of letter: —
DEAR SIR,—
As a critic, hardened playgoer, and writer for the theatre of some fifteen years’ standing, I should like to send a little word of appreciation and thankfulness for the very delightful and enthralling two hours I spent on Tuesday evening. The play, in its line, could hardly be bettered, and I am one who rarely gives praise of that high order. I have seen nothing so good for many moons. Of the author, “Richard Gissing” (am I right in suspecting that this is the “nom de plume” of a woman?), I expect to hear a great deal more. She has a true sense of the theatre. There were, however, one or two minor points which struck me and which I think you would be well advised to alter. In Scene II, Act II —the window scene — the most is not got out of this situation. The girl, instead of announcing herself suddenly, should be heard crying excitedly off-stage, and not appear until the father has heard the cry and gone to the window. The old man could thus have some “business”— a startled look, say, or sudden ejaculation, which would increase the effect of “nerves” at which you were aiming. Otherwise the play falls off —“drags” hopelessly at this point. Then again, in the fight for the revolver, this is very badly handled. They should not pounce together like that, but fall wrestling upon the ground, at about a yard’s distance from it, and strain slowly, surely towards it — the victor disentangling himself and springing up with a cry of triumph. It also might be a good “trick,” at the end, if the revolver was not loaded after all. This would increase the foolishness of the villain’s position, and add an amusing “twist.” It would, in fact, make a very good “curtain,” though for this you would have to cut out the last five minutes of the scene. I do not think you should have any difficulty in doing this, though, as the last part is quite needless, and, as it stands, falls very flat. I recommend this strongly.
The last act, of course, is poor. This is in some measure unavoidable after the climax in the second, but it could be vastly improved by clever production, and by taking it at least twice as fast. As it is it hangs fire altogether, and the actors seem to have lost interest in their parts and gone to sleep. This is the fault of the first act, too — where a little “pep” (if I may be allowed the Americanism) would make all the difference.
As for the cast — Gerald Plaice is a fine actor, and does his best, but there has been a bad bit of “casting” here. He should change places with Mr. Grayson. Miss Starkey is an “old favourite,” of course, but is, I fear, “beyond it” now. The pretty Miss Mortimer, who gives a charming, if inexperienced performance, should be taught what to do with her hands. Miss Potts is much too heavy, and Mr. Manlove rants too much. He lacks restraint.
I have already written more than I intended, so I will not expand upon how you might, with advantage, dispense with the part of the butler altogether, letting the maid, with a few alterations, have his lines — or how you should try to get more mystery into the actual “knocking,” muffing it, perhaps, or hitting a more dead surface — or how you might get a rain-machine (there are excellent ones to be had these days) for the storm scene, and so add to the grim effect. I will simply thank you again for an evening of unalloyed enjoyment. Please convey my congratulations to “Richard Gissing.”
Yours sincerely,
JAMESON BLAYE.
And there was this type of letter:
DEAR SIR,—
In “The Knocking at the Gate,” which I witnessed last night, there is a strange oversight which I think you must have overlooked. In act two the clock on the mantelpiece stands at half-past eight. The curtain is then lowered to denote the passing of three hours. To my surprise I noticed that the clock’s hands remained precisely where they were! Time seems to move slowly in theatreland!
Pardon my impertinence in thus pointing out a little error which may be easily remedied.
Yours faithfully,
RONALD BULL.
And there was, also this type of letter:
DEAR SIRS,—
Kindely send me a cop. of yr. play quickly as will be in Wales soon & unable to look at it. i should think it would be a success, what with these modern plays about Jaz. i dont know what the worlds coming to. please send me that cop. I hope you will have a good time, i Enclose two stamps and will not
Yrs
HENRY STACKS.
CHAPTER V
LONDON
I
THE first night in London of “The Knocking at the Gate” took place on the 25th evening of a January. This evening did not differ from any other evening as far as the general London public was concerned — the thunderous pageant of returning workers, and the softer excited inrush of adorned pleasure-seekers, enacting themselves in the same manner as usual — but it was, to Richard and Jackie, like the last evening of the world.
The last red glow of the sun, shining through the windows of their rooms upon Richard, as he fixed the stud of his blazing evening shirt, and tied and untied his tie, was the kind of sun that shines upon a condemned man. And the taxi they took together, some time later, was a Black Maria of a taxi, if the intensity of fear and the solemnity of ordeal in progress between its closed doors (as it moved through the blocked streets of London to Dean Street) could but have been communicated to the people outside.
They dined at a restaurant almost opposite the theatre, amid the everyday (and yet somehow swimming and unnatural) attentions of the waiters, and various cloaked and chattering suburban ladies who were going, that evening, to the same theatre as themselves. Then he took her to the stage door — an unpleasant walk — and left her.
After that it was all a whirring nightmare in the stewing electric light of those underground, dungeon-like cellars so discrepantly coloured, cushioned and carpeted.
She split open her telegrams in a maze of giddiness, she cried “Come in” to the knocks upon the door, and she exchanged greetings with her limply smiling fellow-professionals. Such greetings are given you just before you take the anæsthetic….
And in the dressing-rooms, all along the passage, the same thing was happening…. A knock — a cheery “Can I come in?”— a cry of recognition — and the sound of mumbling and insecure laughter….
And the “Half-hour” was called, and then the “Quarter.” And dimly, and from afar, upstairs, came the troubling sound of ripple and restlessness from an incoming audience. This sound was to be divined rather than heard, and you did not dare reflect upon what was taking place up there…. Actually a line of glistening motors was filling the cold street for three hundred yards — doors were slamming briskly, people were entering brightly, and shaking hands, and everything was as cheerful and above-board and social as it was, down here, sinister, palpitating and secretive. The wings of horror beat the air down here, but only by the acceptance of that horror was the pleasure and piquancy of the evening upstairs to be maintained. Such is the marvellous power of mankind for deliberately creating and inflicting thrills and agonies upon itself.
And then a vague, distant atmosphere of bells, and the cry of “Overture, please!” all along the passage, and then the overture itself. Jackie did not appear until twenty minutes after the commencement, and she was ready too early, and sat mistily looking at herself in the glass. An uncanny, trembling, and beautiful Jackie — with every beauty of hand, and nail, and nose, and eye, and lip over-emphasized and made monstrous by paint — scarcely Jackie at all, and yet Jackie multiplied by herself — a mad magnification of her loveliness. Her eye-lids as blue as the Mediterranean, her lip
s as red as a soldier of the Queen, her arms like a miller’s, and her eye-lashes burdened with little globes of black….
And then the high, hysterically supercilious voice of Mr. Plaice (who opened the play) as he walked down the passage to his fate…. And suddenly the end of the overture…. And a sudden slow rumble (the curtain)…. And a breathless pause…. And then the sound of stamping, and the sound of voices, and the old familiar lines, muffled by distance….
And now a great silence in all the dressing-rooms — a voice and step at the end of the passage, a cough, or a giggle, drawing anguished attention to itself. It was as though some of the operations had already begun, and, if you listened, you could hear the first opiate stirrings and unconscious sighs of the victims. There would be a scream in a moment (you felt), and then quiet again…. And up above, the muffled thudding and voices, continually….
A bell buzzed. Steps clanged down the passage. A double knock on the door.
“MISS MORTIMER, PLEASE!”
She was the first to be called. “Coming,” she said. She flew to the mirror, powdered herself again, swung herself round, and rushed out. She passed under the stage, where the boards were positively cracking under Mr. Plaice’s boots, and where you could almost hear the actors breathing (they were doing it very hard), and she came up on the o.p. side. Here she met Richard, who said “Hullo,” and courteously took her hand. This author had been shaking over a hundred hands since he had seen her last, and he was not in a condition to differentiate. Nor was she.
II
Three minutes later she found herself on the stage.
She was facing Mr. Plaice (who was sweating) and speaking her first lines intelligently to him, and he was speaking intelligently to her. But although he was speaking the lines of the play, and although his facial expressions were apparently appropriate to his speech, his more subtle expression was conveying something quite different to her, and she was conscious of this alone. He was sympathizing with her.
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