“Here we are, you see,” he seemed to be saying, “playing on a first night. They’re out there, and we’re here. And I’m smeared with grease-paint and ever so queer-looking to you, and you look the same to me. And we’re both in a sea of horrible, blinding, amber light, and how it all came about it’s impossible to say…. But we’ve got to keep it going — you and I. Of course, I’ve been on longer than you (that’s why I’m sweating so) and I’m getting hardened…. I know all about that foul coughing female in the third row…. And I know all about this family in this box here…. Oh, and I know all about that chair…. It’s been miles too far up-stage ever since I came on. I’ve been trying to shove it down all the time…. And notice the whisky. Burnt sugar and water. Much too pale. And they gave us water at the dress-rehearsal, didn’t they? You’ll get used to it in time….”
Such thoughts, which were all her own thoughts, did Jackie read into Mr. Plaice’s look.
She felt a great oppressed kinship with Mr. Plaice. After a time she began to settle down, even going so far, at moments, as to become conscious of what she was saying. And when the time came to go she had a certain regret at leaving.
III
At the interval there was a bustling and brighter, if still nervous, air over the dressing-rooms — as though one or two of the operations were over, and favourable results had been reported.
It was not until the last five minutes of the play that a new sensation overtook Jackie. She had the stage to herself and a scene where she was left alone in the dark. And all at once she awoke to the fact that this was truly an occasion, that all eyes were concentrated upon her, and that she was able to cope with it. She was a young actress able to cope with a London audience on a first night. She glimpsed the eagerness of chins lying on glowing arms in the gallery, and she sensed the dark and serious watchfulness of the whole house, and she was filled with a true exultation in her achievement, and played with all the knowledge and skill and depth that she had at her command….
And when, two minutes later, the curtain fell, and she took her call with Mr. Plaice, she heard what she had done….
*
Jackie never forgot that applause. It snarled up like thunder at her — it took her breath away — it seemed as though it would never cease…. It was like a mad wave carrying her forward, rolling and surrounding and submerging her in unreasoning bliss…. And it was the applause of London! It was an embrace from infinite sources of metropolitan good nature — undreamed of, absurd, abandoned…. She could only bow, and smile up weakly, and listen….
And there was then a great deal of applause for everybody else. And then again, “Miss Mortimer and Mr. Plaice!” cried the stage-manager, and she walked on with the curtain down. “Mr. Plaice!” cried the stage-manager. “Mr. Plaice!” But Mr. Plaice was not in evidence.
“All right, Miss Mortimer!” shouted the stage-manager, and Jackie had a call to herself.
And again it smashed up at her — as it always will smash up at a single figure — and she heard the sound of cheering — and she saw the audience in that curious, glowing, hat-holding, disintegrated state which invariably overtakes it just at the end — and she bowed and smiled, and looked upwards timidly, and bowed and smiled again….
And then she was with the others in a row, like a lot of good little girls and boys, and Richard was making a speech….
CHAPTER VI
ARRIVAL
I
AND so it was that Jackie entered in upon that brief period allotted to her as a West End actress.
She was not asleep until half-past five that night, but at nine o’ clock she was sitting up in bed with her heart beating, and a batch of papers, which Richard had brought her, at her side. It was not altogether easy to find mention of the play. For although the greater part of the headings, such as “PLAY THAT NEARLY SUCCEEDS”—“TELLING SCENE IN NEW PLAY”— “THRILLS AT THE COBURG,” were readily identifiable, there were, on the other hand, many such as “GHOSTLY SOUNDS IN DEAN STREET”—“NEW METHODS OF DETECTION”—“CRIME AND A DOOR”—“POSTMAN’S KNOCK”—“AN EERIE EVENING,” and so forth, which baffled the seeker for a long time.
And when they were found, it was rather a nasty moment as you said “Here we are,” and rattlingly adjusted the paper, and skimmed hastily through the rather naïve distortion of the plot to the mention of yourself. A kind of newspaper giddiness overtook you. But it wasn’t so bad to find that you, “as the beautiful if somewhat icy Paula” acted with “a shrewd sense of character and a genuine stage sense,” or that “good work” was “also put in” by you, or that scenes were “excellently handled” or “tellingly played by you, or that your “personal charms, in themselves, enlivened what threatened, at moments, to be a dull evening.”
Though it was not so gratifying to learn that when you had “gained technical skill” you should do very nicely, or that you “decorated rather than improved” the drama, or that you were “a young and dainty new-comer” who still had “a great deal to learn.”
You were consoled, however, when you reached the theatre that morning, by the news that all inimical critics, either of yourself or the play, were not in any way worthy of the name of critic — these treacherous malignants having either:
(1) Only looked in for half an hour during the dress-rehearsal.
(2) Arrived blind to the world.
(3) Received, only that night, news from New York that their own play had been withdrawn after two nights. (Hence a green and surly attitude.)
Or (4) Deserted the Coburg (in favour of the Savage Club and revelry) before the third act.
And you heard of all the distinguished people who had been in front last night, and they had never seen any play quite like it.
Jackie was rather horrified, as she entered the theatre that morning, at half-past eleven, to find the understudies already and busily rehearsing. It had a curiously depressing effect upon her sympathetic nature. She thought that she would destroy herself, if she ever became an understudy.
“NEW YOUNG ACTRESS”
was the headline in the “Evening Star” notice that evening, and there was a picture of her. She went to her work eagerly that night.
II
And so Jackie was established, at the age of twenty-five and in her fifth year in her profession, as the leading lady at the Coburg Theatre. She had all the privileges of that achievement.
The dressing-table of her little blazing underground room was littered with green and white cuttings from Durrant’s Press Cutting Agency: she had constant delightful pictures of herself in the daily and weekly papers: compliments from famous producers in front were reported with pleasant regularity: she received £25 a week: young men visited her during matinées with requests to paint miniature portraits of her: she made a little speech to the Gallery First Nighters on a Sunday: she granted bashful interviews for northern newspapers; she could stand gazing at her own name over the live wire in tube stations: she had, in fact, a thousand and one little satisfactions which gave her no satisfaction whatever, and she remained, to the public at large, quite unknown.
Her achievement, also, would reduce itself to this sort of thing:
A knock on the door during the matinée, and the stage doorkeeper’s head put round.
“A lady to see you, miss.” He hands her a card.
The name on the card is unknown to her, but on the back, in pencil, is scrawled “Iris Langham.”
Jackie is enormously gleeful. It is her old school-friend.
“Do tell her to come down,” she says.
She swiftly tidies up the room, and looks at herself in the glass. This is one of her moments. This is better than coming back in her glory to play at Brighton. She is playing, in her glory, in Town.
“HulLO-O-O-O, my dear!” They embrace.
They talk brightly for a little, and then Jackie gives an opening.
“Well, here I am, you see,” says Jackie, standing up and powdering her face.
&nbs
p; But her friend is looking vaguely about the room.
“My darling, don’t you get most frightfully hot in here?” she asks.
“Yes, it does get a bit hot sometimes.”
“There doesn’t seem a breath of air coming in anywhere, my dear. I should hate it.”
“I know,” says Jackie. “But you have to get used to worse than that.”
There is a pause.
“Are you going on with this sort of thing, then, Jackie?”
“Go on, dear? How do you mean?” They smile at each other.
“Only whether you’re going on. I just wondered….”
“Rather‚” says Jackie. “I’m doing all right at present, anyway, aren’t I?”
But her friend does not answer this.
“Of course, my dear,” she says, brightly. “You know I’m married!”
“Married!” cries Jackie. “No!” She sits down.
“Yes, my dear. Two years now.”
“My dear Iris! Who to?”
“Oh, you’ve never met him, dear. He’s the most marvellous husband, though. Lets me do anything I like.”
“Good lord,” says Jackie, and takes to adjusting her hair.
There is a silence.
“We live down at Maidenhead,” says Iris.
“Oh, yes?” says Jackie.
“And we’ve just got the most wonderful little car, to bring us up.”
“Really? How ripping.”
There is another silence.
“Oh — and, my dear!” cries Iris. “The most wonderful little dog! A little terrier! I do wish I’d brought him up to-day. You ’d ’ve loved to have seen him.”
“Yes. I wish you had.”
“You’d absolutely adore him, my dear. He’s got a little black spot, all round his nose!”
Jackie clearly thinks that this is almost too charming a thing for a little dog to have.
“I brought him up the other day. The poor little thing had to have an operation. He was frightfully good. Of course I spoil him most hideously.”
Jackie’s smile infers that she can understand it….
“Do you come up here often?” asks Jackie.
“Oh, a fair amount. Just for the theatres. But then there’re so few decent shows going on nowadays, aren’t there?”
“No. There aren’t really,” says Jackie….
“Good heavens,” says Jackie. “I must go on! You’ll be here all right when I come back?”
“How long will you be?”
“Only about ten minutes.”
“Well, my dear, I think I ought to go. It’s getting dark and I swore I’d be back early to-night.”
“Oh.”
They go out into the passage together, and they say “Good-bye.”
“You must look in again some time,” cries Jackie, at the end of the passage.
“(Yes) and if you’re over our way, you’ll give us a look up, won’t you?” cries Iris.
“Rather!”
Her heart is bitter as she goes on to perform.
III
And during the run of the show Jackie had many invitations to theatrical dances, cabarets, and night-clubs.
She accepted most of them. With the muffled crash and lilt and shuffle of the Merrickian haunts she became familiar, and she was very often having breakfast in Soho at half-past three in the morning.
She inflicted herself with these unimaginative activities partially out of a desire to leave nothing undone in her new role in life, but mostly because she was unable to rebuff the importunities of her (by now) many friends. It took her away from Richard, however, and she began secretly to look forward to the time when “The Knocking at the Gate” came off. This it did after four and a half months.
CHAPTER VII
JACKIE AND RICHARD
I
ON the strength of “The Knocking at the Gate,” and 5 per cent. on the gross issuing therefrom to Richard, they left their rooms and took a flat in South Kensington.
It was a very desirable flat, at the top of a very high building, and reached by fourscore stairs.
It was possible to confuse yourself with Samson, at the close of a very stiff day at the mill, as you went round and round in endeavouring to reach the summit of these stairs, but it was a very desirable flat when you got there.
They had very sweet hours together — with the world shut out. Jackie did not, by now, have the same feelings towards Richard as she had at first. They were not so poignant and lively, but they were deeper and firmer. He was infinitely charming, and attentive, and indispensable, and, what was much more important, unspeakably dependent. His content, and her power of giving it, were her pride and joy.
When he was with her in public he spoke very little. He was a vague, inscrutable figure at the back of rehearsals, looking lonely and not very interested, and speaking to no one, and watching her. He would make queer little excursions amongst the stage properties, and finger things, and peer at them, and generally end by bringing them down with a crash. He was always wandering off, and muddling about, and bringing something down with a crash. And then he looked foolish. He was like a strange cat in the theatre. A queer noise would be heard, and the rehearsal would stop, and it would be Richard, standing there and trying to look as though he hadn’t. He was very lovable to Jackie when he did this sort of thing. It was his silly way of expressing his impatience for her.
II
But he talked enough when he had her alone. Indeed his garrulousness and ebullience, at times, were almost wearing. It was as though he had never had anyone to talk to in his life before. And the more he talked, and the happier he grew, the more pathetic he became. He was an astonishingly pathetic creature sometimes, and at the least likely moments.
And they flirted and were foolish with each other all day long, and they bathed in the glow of their own irresponsibility and a love not needing mention….
They had their own private idiom and their own private humour, and their behaviour was incomprehensible.
In the morning, after breakfast, for instance, he would come charging into her, as she sat in the front room, and go over to the table in the corner with some papers. He would pretend that he had not seen her, and he would be muttering to himself….
“Ha!” he would mutter. “I wonder where she’s got to…. Can I go on with this much longer? The strain of having to pretend I love her? Is it worth it? Ha, ha! If she only knew!” He would give a devilish chuckle and commence to write. “What would she think then? What would she think if she knew I married her purely for the sake of her Money? Eh? What then? Ha, ha! Little does she know! Little does she guess that I engaged her simpering affections solely in order that I might obtain a Certain Legacy, left her, I believe, by One Lady Perrin (a Rich Widowed Lady of Brighton, now Deceased) — thus saving myself from exposure and ruin (for I had been embezzling heavily with my firm’s money, and was compelled to make up the deficit). It was a Lucky Business for Me! Well — she must not know — yet. The time has not come. Bah! The milk-and-water little fool! How her timid affections nauseate me! When I have what I want, she shall see no more of me! I shall cast her off like an Old Shoe!” At this he would turn round and give a start of recognition. “Heavens! She is in the room! Could she have heard what I said? No — surely not! … But I must go more carefully in the future. Now, I suppose I must lovingly greet her!” He would rise and come over to her.
“Ah — my darling. I did not observe that you had entered the room. I trust that you have enjoyed a pleasant night’s repose.”
“Very nice, thank you, Richard.”
“I am glad. But what — what is this? There is an air of restraint — of coolness, almost — about you. I have not offended you, I hope.”
“No, not at all, Richard.”
“Ah — my error, doubtless. And I would not have you so this morning, my pet, for there is a little Business to transact. There are Certain Papers, which I wish you to Sign. They are here. I do not think you nee
d trouble to Read them. Do so, of course, if you wish. But such a pretty little head, I know, cannot be bothered with these dreadful commercial matters ——”
“Richard, did you leave the gas on upstairs?”
“Don’t think so, darling.”
“I’d better go up and see.” Jackie would rise. “All right, I’ll sign them when I come down,” she would add, and leave the room.
By the time she came down he would have forgotten about his schemes, and be sitting on the sofa reading “The Daily Mirror.” She would go and sit close to him.
“Richard,” she would ask. “You did n’t really marry me for my Money, did you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“No. Not really, Richard, did you? Did n’t you marry me for anything else?”
“No. I’ve married you for your Money.”
“No — but, you have n’t really, Richard,” Jackie would plead, but, “Yes, yes, yes, I have,” he would maintain. “I have.”
And however much she asked, and pleaded, and embraced him, he would never admit that he had n’t.
Though he might Come to love her, he would sometimes allow.
III
In all their time together they had no disputes. In any crisis he telephoned for help.
He would swing out of the room, and she would hear clicking noises outside.
“Hullo…. Hullo…. I want Earlswood, please — yes, please…. Thank you…. Ah — hullo! Is that Earlswood? … The Asylum? … Ah — may I speak to the Director of Raving Lunatics, please? … What? … The Director of Raving Lunatics, please. Thank you…. Hullo. Is that the Director of Raving Lunatics? Ah. Good evening, sir. I’ve a nasty little case here…. No, a woman, I’m afraid — my wife…. Oh, yes, beyond question…. A van, did you say? Naturally. Padded, I hope…. And eight men? Oh — at least. Thank you. Be as quick as possible, won’t you, sir? It’s rather creepy here. Thank you. Good evening.”
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