Джером К. Джером
Paul Kelver
“Don’t gentlemen wear coats of a hevening nowadays?” asked Miss Sellars, tartly, of the lank young man. “New fashion just come in?”
“I don’t know what gentlemen wear in the evening or what they don’t,” retorted the lank young man, who appeared to be in an aggressive mood. “If I can find one in this street, I’ll ast him and let you know.”
“Mother in the droaring-room?” enquired Miss Sellars, ignoring the retort.
“They’re all of ‘em in the parlour, if that’s what you mean,” returned the lank young man, “the whole blooming shoot. If you stand up against the wall and don’t breathe, there’ll just be room for you.”
Sweeping by the lank young man, Miss Sellars opened the parlour door, and towing me in behind her, shut it.
“Well, Mar, here we are,” announced Miss Sellars. An enormously stout lady, ornamented with a cap that appeared to have been made out of a bandanna handkerchief, rose to greet us, thus revealing the fact that she had been sitting upon an extremely small horsehair-covered easy-chair, the disproportion between the lady and her support being quite pathetic.
“I am charmed, Mr. – ”
“Kelver,” supplied Miss Sellars.
“Kelver, to make your ac-quain-tance,” recited Mrs. Sellars in the tone of one repeating a lesson.
I bowed, and murmured that the honour was entirely mine.
“Don’t mention it,” replied Mrs. Sellars. “Pray be seated.”
Mrs. Sellars herself set the example by suddenly giving way and dropping down into her chair, which thus again became invisible. It received her with an agonised groan.
Indeed, the insistence with which this article of furniture throughout the evening called attention to its sufferings was really quite distracting. With every breath that Mrs. Sellars took it moaned wearily. There were moments when it literally shrieked. I could not have accepted Mrs. Sellars’ offer had I wished, there being no chair vacant and no room for another. A young man with watery eyes, sitting just behind me between a fat young lady and a lean one, rose and suggested my taking his place. Miss Sellars introduced me to him as her cousin Joseph something or other, and we shook hands.
The watery-eyed Joseph remarked that it had been a fine day between the showers, and hoped that the morrow would be either wet or dry; upon which the lean young lady, having slapped him, asked admiringly of the fat young lady if he wasn’t a “silly fool;” to which the fat young lady replied, with somewhat unnecessary severity, I thought, that no one could help being what they were born. To this the lean young lady retorted that it was with precisely similar reflection that she herself controlled her own feelings when tempted to resent the fat young lady’s “nasty jealous temper.”
The threatened quarrel was nipped in the bud by the discretion of Miss Sellars, who took the opportunity of the fat young lady’s momentary speechlessness to introduce me promptly to both of them. They also, I learned, were cousins. The lean girl said she had “erd on me,” and immediately fell into an uncontrollable fit of giggles; of which the watery-eyed Joseph requested me to take no notice, explaining that she always went off like that at exactly three-quarters to the half-hour every evening, Sundays and holidays excepted; that she had taken everything possible for it without effect, and that what he himself advised was that she should have it off.
The fat girl, seizing the chance afforded her, remarked genteelly that she too had “heard hof me,” with emphasis upon the “hof.” She also remarked it was a long walk from Blackfriars Bridge.
“All depends upon the company, eh? Bet they didn’t find it too long.”
This came from a loud-voiced, red-faced man sitting on the sofa beside a somewhat melancholy-looking female dressed in bright green. These twain I discovered to be Uncle and Aunt Gutton. From an observation dropped later in the evening concerning government restrictions on the sale of methylated spirit, and hastily smothered, I gathered that their line was oil and colour.
Mr. Gutton’s forte appeared to be badinage. He it was who, on my explaining my heightened colour as due to the closeness of the evening, congratulated his niece on having secured so warm a partner.
“Will be jolly handy,” shouted Uncle Gutton, “for Rosina, seeing she’s always complaining of her cold feet.”
Here the lank young man attempted to squeeze himself into the room, but found his entrance barred by the square, squat figure of the watery-eyed young man.
“Don’t push,” advised the watery-eyed young man. “Walk over me quietly.”
“Well, why don’t yer get out of the way,” growled the lank young man, now coated, but still aggressive.
“Where am I to get to?” asked the watery-eyed young man, with some reason. “Say the word and I’ll ‘ang myself up to the gas bracket.”
“In my courting days,” roared Uncle Gutton, “the girls used to be able to find seats, even if there wasn’t enough chairs to go all round.”
The sentiment was received with varying degrees of approbation. The watery-eyed young man, sitting down, put the lean young lady on his knee, and in spite of her struggles and sounding slaps, heroically retained her there.
“Now, then, Rosie,” shouted Uncle Gutton, who appeared to have constituted himself master of the ceremonies, “don’t stand about, my girl; you’ll get tired.”
Left to herself, I am inclined to think my fiancee would have spared me; but Uncle Gutton, having been invited to a love comedy, was not to be cheated of any part of the performance, and the audience clearly being with him, there was nothing for it but compliance. I seated myself, and amid plaudits accommodated the ample and heavy Rosina upon my knee.
“Good-bye,” called out to me the watery-eyed young man, as behind the fair Rosina I disappeared from his view. “See you again later on.”
“I used to be a plump girl myself before I married,” observed Aunt Gutton. “Plump as butter I was at one time.”
“It isn’t what one eats,” said the maternal Sellars. “I myself don’t eat enough to keep a fly, and my legs – ”
“That’ll do, Mar,” interrupted the filial Sellars, tartly.
“I was only going to say, my dear – ”
“We all know what you was going to say, Mar,” retorted Miss Sellars. “We’ve heard it before, and it isn’t interesting.”
Mrs. Sellars relapsed into silence.
“‘Ard work and plenty of it keeps you thin enough, I notice,” remarked the lank young man, with bitterness. To him I was now introduced, he being Mr. George Sellars. “Seen ‘im before,” was his curt greeting.
At supper – referred to by Mrs. Sellars again in the tone of one remembering a lesson, as a cold col-la-tion, with the accent on the “tion” – I sat between Miss Sellars and the lean young lady, with Aunt and Uncle Gutton opposite to us. It was remarked with approval that I did not appear to be hungry.
“Had too many kisses afore he started,” suggested Uncle Gutton, with his mouth full of cold roast pork and pickles. “Wonderfully nourishing thing, kisses, eh? Look at mother and me. That’s all we live on.”
Aunt Gutton sighed, and observed that she had always been a poor feeder.
The watery-eyed young man, observing he had never tasted them himself – at which sally there was much laughter – said he would not mind trying a sample if the lean young lady would kindly pass him one.
The lean young lady opined that, not being used to high living, it might disagree with him.
“Just one,” pleaded the watery-eyed young man, “to go with this bit of cracklin’.”
The lean young lady, amid renewed applause, first thoughtfully wiping her mouth, acceded to his request.
The watery-eyed young man turned it over with the air of a gourmet.
“Not bad,” was his verdict. “Reminds me of onions.” At this there was another burst of laughter.
“Now then, ain’t Paul goin’ to have one?” shouted Uncle Gutton, when the laughter had subsided.
Amid silence, feeling as wretched as perhaps I have ever felt in my life before or since, I received one from the gracious Miss Sellars, wet and sounding.
“Looks better for it already,” commented the delighted Uncle Gutton. “He’ll soon get fat on ‘em.”
“Not too many at first,” advised the watery-eyed young man. “Looks to me as if he’s got a weak stomach.”
I think, had the meal lasted much longer, I should have made a dash for the street; the contemplation of such step was forming in my mind. But Miss Sellars, looking at her watch, declared we must be getting home at once, for the which I could have kissed her voluntarily; and, being a young lady of decision, at once rose and commenced leave-taking. Polite protests were attempted, but these, with enthusiastic assistance from myself, she swept aside.
“Don’t want any one to walk home with you?” suggested Uncle Gutton. “Sure you won’t feel lonely by yourselves, eh?”
“We shan’t come to no harm,” assured him Miss Sellars.
“P’raps you’re right,” agreed Uncle Gutton. “There don’t seem to be much of the fiery and untamed about him, so far as I can see.”
“‘Slow waters run deep,’” reminded us Aunt Gutton, with a waggish shake of her head.
“No question about the slow,” assented Uncle Gutton. “If you don’t like him – ” observed Miss Sellars, speaking with dignity.
“To be quite candid with you, my girl, I don’t,” answered Uncle Gutton, whose temper, maybe as the result of too much cold pork and whiskey, seemed to have suddenly changed.
“Well, he happens to be good enough for me,” recommenced Miss Sellars.
“I’m sorry to hear a niece of mine say so,” interrupted Uncle Gutton. “If you want my opinion of him – ”
“If ever I do I’ll call round some time when you’re sober and ast you for it,” returned Miss Sellars. “And as for being your niece, you was here when I came, and I don’t see very well as how I could have got out of it. You needn’t throw that in my teeth.”
The gust was dispersed by the practical remark of brother George to the effect that the last tram for Walworth left the Oval at eleven-thirty; to which he further added the suggestion that the Clapham Road was wide and well adapted to a row.
“There ain’t going to be no rows,” replied Uncle Gutton, returning to amiability as suddenly as he had departed from it. “We understand each other, don’t we, my girl?”
“That’s all right, uncle. I know what you mean,” returned Miss Sellars, with equal handsomeness.
“Bring him round again when he’s feeling better,” added Uncle Gutton, “and we’ll have another look at him.”
“What you want,” advised the watery-eyed young man on shaking hands with me, “is complete rest and a tombstone.”
I wished at the time I could have followed his prescription.
The maternal Sellars waddled after us into the passage, which she completely blocked. She told me she was delight-ted to have met me, and that she was always at home on Sundays.
I said I would remember it, and thanked her warmly for a pleasant evening, at Miss Sellars’ request calling her Ma.
Outside, Miss Sellars agreed that my presentiment had proved correct – that I had not shone to advantage. Our journey home on a tramcar was a somewhat silent proceeding. At the door of her room she forgave me, and kissed me good night. Had I been frank with her, I should have thanked her for that evening’s experience. It had made my course plain to me.
The next day, which was Thursday, I wandered about the streets till two o’clock in the morning, when I slipped in quietly, passing Miss Sellars’ door with my boots in my hand.
After Mr. Lott’s departure on Friday, which, fortunately, was pay-day, I set my desk in order and confided to Minikin written instructions concerning all matters unfinished.
“I shall not be here to-morrow,” I told him. “Going to follow your advice.”
“Found anything to do?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I answered.
“Suppose you can’t get anything?”
“If the worst comes to the worst,” I replied, “I can hang myself.”
“Well, you know the girl. Maybe you are right,” he agreed.
“Hope it won’t throw much extra work on you,” I said.
“Well, I shan’t be catching it if it does,” was his answer. “That’s all right.”
He walked with me to the “Angel,” and there we parted.
“If you do get on to the stage,” he said, “and it’s anything worth seeing, and you send me an order, and I can find the time, maybe I’ll come and see you.”
I thanked him for his promised support and jumped upon the tram.
The O’Kelly’s address was in Belsize Square. I was about to ring and knock, as requested by a highly-polished brass plate, when I became aware of pieces of small coal falling about me on the doorstep. Looking up, I perceived the O’Kelly leaning out of an attic window. From signs I gathered I was to retire from the doorstep and wait. In a few minutes the door opened and his hand beckoned me to enter.
“Walk quietly,” he whispered; and on tip-toe we climbed up to the attic from where had fallen the coal. “I’ve been waiting for ye,” explained the O’Kelly, speaking low. “Me wife – a good woman, Paul; sure, a better woman never lived; ye’ll like her when ye know her, later on – she might not care about ye’re calling. She’d want to know where I met ye, and – ye understand? Besides,” added the O’Kelly, “we can smoke up here;” and seating himself where he could keep an eye upon the door, near to a small cupboard out of which he produced a pipe still alight, the O’Kelly prepared himself to listen.
I told him briefly the reason of my visit.
“It was my fault, Paul,” he was good enough to say; “my fault entirely. Between ourselves, it was a damned silly idea, that party, the whole thing altogether. Don’t ye think so?”
I replied that I was naturally prejudiced against it myself.
“Most unfortunate for me,” continued the O’Kelly; “I know that. Me cabman took me to Hammersmith instead of Hampstead; said I told him Hammersmith. Didn’t get home here till three o’clock in the morning. Most unfortunate – under the circumstances.”
I could quite imagine it.
“But I’m glad ye’ve come,” said the O’Kelly. “I had a notion ye did something foolish that evening, but I couldn’t remember precisely what. It’s been worrying me.”
“It’s been worrying me also, I can assure you,” I told him; and I gave him an account of my Wednesday evening’s experience.
“I’ll go round to-morrow morning,” he said, “and see one or two people. It’s not a bad idea, that of Jarman’s. I think I may be able to arrange something for ye.”
He fixed a time for me to call again upon him the next day, when Mrs. O’Kelly would be away from home. He instructed me to walk quietly up and down on the opposite side of the road with my eye on the attic window, and not to come across unless he waved a handkerchief.
Rising to go, I thanked him for his kindness. “Don’t put it that way, me dear Paul,” he answered. “If I don’t get ye out of this scrape I shall never forgive meself. If we damned silly fools don’t help one another,” he added, with his pleasant laugh, “who is to help us?”
We crept downstairs as we had crept up. As we reached the first floor, the drawing-room door suddenly opened.
“William!” cried a sharp voice.
“Me dear,” answered the O’Kelly, snatching his pipe from his mouth and thrusting it, still alight, into his trousers pocket. I made the rest of the descent by myself, and slipping out, closed the door behind me as noiselessly as possible.
Again I did not return to Nelson Square until the early hours, and the next morning did not venture out until I had heard Miss Sellars, who appeared to be in a bad temper, leave the house. Then running to the top of the kitchen stairs, I called for Mrs. Peedles. I told her I was going to leave her, and, judging the truth to be the simplest explanation, I told her the reason why.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Peedles, “I am only too glad to hear it. It wasn’t for me to interfere, but I couldn’t help seeing you were making a fool of yourself. I only hope you’ll get clear off, and you may depend upon me to do all I can to help you.”
“You don’t think I’m acting dishonourably, do you, Mrs. Peedles?” I asked.
“My dear,” replied Mrs. Peedles, “it’s a difficult world to live in – leastways, that’s been my experience of it.”
I had just completed my packing – it had not taken me long – when I heard upon the stairs the heavy panting that always announced to me the up-coming of Mrs. Peedles. She entered with a bundle of old manuscripts under her arm, torn and tumbled booklets of various shapes and sizes. These she plumped down upon the rickety table, and herself upon the nearest chair.
“Put them in your box, my dear,” said Mrs. Peedles. “They’ll come in useful to you later on.”
I glanced at the bundle. I saw it was a collection of old plays in manuscript-prompt copies, scored, cut and interlined. The top one I noticed was “The Bloodspot: Or the Maiden, the Miser and the Murderer;” the second, “The Female Highwayman.”
“Everybody’s forgotten ‘em,” explained Mrs. Peedles, “but there’s some good stuff in all of them.”
“But what am I to do with them?” I enquired.
“Just whatever you like, my dear,” explained Mrs. Peedles. “It’s quite safe. They’re all of ‘em dead, the authors of ‘em. I’ve picked ‘em out most carefully. You just take a scene from one and a scene from the other. With judgment and your talent you’ll make a dozen good plays out of that little lot when your time comes.”
“But they wouldn’t be my plays, Mrs. Peedles,” I suggested.
“They will if I give them to you,” answered Mrs. Peedles. “You put ‘em in your box. And never mind the bit of rent,” added Mrs. Peedles; “you can pay me that later on.”
I kissed the kind old soul good-bye and took her gift with me to my new lodgings in Camden Town. Many a time have I been hard put to it for plot or scene, and more than once in weak mood have I turned with guilty intent the torn and crumpled pages of Mrs. Peedles’s donation to my literary equipment. It is pleasant to be able to put my hand upon my heart and reflect that never yet have I yielded to the temptation. Always have I laid them back within their drawer, saying to myself, with stern reproof:
“No, no, Paul. Stand or fall by your own merits. Never plagiarise – in any case, not from this ‘little lot.’”
CHAPTER IV.
LEADS TO A MEETING
“Don’t be nervous,” said the O’Kelly, “and don’t try to do too much. You have a very fair voice, but it’s not powerful. Keep cool and open your mouth.”
It was eleven o’clock in the morning. We were standing at the entrance of the narrow court leading to the stage door. For a fortnight past the O’Kelly had been coaching me. It had been nervous work for both of us, but especially for the O’Kelly. Mrs. O’Kelly, a thin, acid-looking lady, of whom I once or twice had caught a glimpse while promenading Belsize Square awaiting the O’Kelly’s signal, was a serious-minded lady, with a conscientious objection to all music not of a sacred character. With the hope of winning the O’Kelly from one at least of his sinful tendencies, the piano had been got rid of, and its place in the drawing-room filled by an American organ of exceptionally lugubrious tone. With this we had had to make shift, and though the O’Kelly – a veritable musical genius – had succeeded in evolving from it an accompaniment to “Sally in Our Alley” less misleading and confusing than might otherwise have been the case, the result had not been to lighten our labours. My rendering of the famous ballad had, in consequence, acquired a dolefulness not intended by the composer. Sung as I sang it, the theme became, to employ a definition since grown hackneyed as applied to Art, a problem ballad. Involuntarily one wondered whether the marriage would turn out as satisfactorily as the young man appeared to anticipate. Was there not, when one came to think of it, a melancholy, a pessimism ingrained within the temperament of the complainful hero that would ill assort with those instincts toward frivolity the careful observer could not avoid discerning in the charming yet nevertheless somewhat shallow character of Sally.
“Lighter, lighter. Not so soulful,” would demand the O’Kelly, as the solemn notes rolled jerkily from the groaning instrument beneath his hands.
Once we were nearly caught, Mrs. O’Kelly returning from a district visitors’ committee meeting earlier than was expected. Hastily I was hidden in a small conservatory adjutting from the first floor landing, where, crouching behind flower-pots, I listened in fear and trembling to the severe cross-examination of the O’Kelly.
“William, do not prevaricate. It was not a hymn.”
“Me dear, so much depends upon the time. Let me give ye an example of what I mean.”
“William, pray in my presence not to play tricks with sacred melodies. If you have no respect for religion, please remember that I have. Besides, why should you be playing hymns in any time at ten o’clock in the morning? It is not like you, William, and I do not credit your explanation. And you were singing. I distinctly heard the word ‘Sally’ as I opened the door.”
“Salvation, me dear,” corrected the O’Kelly.
“Your enunciation, William, is not usually so much at fault.”
“A little hoarseness, me dear,” explained the O’Kelly.
“Your voice did not sound hoarse. Perhaps it will be better if we do not pursue the subject further.”
With this the O’Kelly appeared to agree.
“A lady a little difficult to get on with when ye’re feeling well and strong,” so the O’Kelly would explain her; “but if ye happen to be ill, one of the kindest, most devoted of women. When I was down with typhoid three years ago, a tenderer nurse no man could have had. I shall never forget it. And so she would be again to-morrow, if there was anything serious the matter with me.”
I murmured the well-known quotation.
“Mrs. O’Kelly to a T,” concurred the O’Kelly. “I sometimes wonder if Lady Scott may not have been the same sort of woman.”
“The unfortunate part of it is,” continued the O’Kelly, “that I’m such a healthy beggar; it don’t give her a chance. If I were only a chronic invalid, now, there’s nothing that woman would not do to make me happy. As it is – ” The O’Kelly struck a chord. We resumed our studies.
But to return to our conversation at the stage door.
“Meet me at the Cheshire Cheese at one o’clock,” said the O’Kelly, shaking hands. “If ye don’t get on here, we’ll try something else; but I’ve spoken to Hodgson, and I think ye will. Good luck to ye!”
He went his way and I mine. In a glass box just behind the door a curved-nose, round-eyed little man, looking like an angry bird in a cage, demanded of me my business. I showed him my letter of appointment.
“Up the passage, across the stage, along the corridor, first floor, second door on the right,” he instructed me in one breath, and shut the window with a snap.
I proceeded up the passage. It somewhat surprised me to discover that I was not in the least excited at the thought of this, my first introduction to “behind the scenes.”
I recall my father’s asking a young soldier on his return from the Crimea what had been his sensations at the commencement of his first charge.
“Well,” replied the young fellow, “I was worrying all the time, remembering I had rushed out leaving the beer tap running in the canteen, and I could not forget it.”
So far as the stage I found my way in safety. Pausing for a moment and glancing round, my impression was not so much disillusionment concerning all things theatrical as realisation of my worst forebodings. In that one moment all glamour connected with the stage fell from me, nor has it since ever returned to me. From the tawdry decorations of the auditorium to the childish make-belief littered around on the stage, I saw the Theatre a painted thing of shreds and patches – the grown child’s doll’s-house. The Drama may improve us, elevate us, interest and teach us. I am sure it does; long may it flourish! But so likewise does the dressing and undressing of dolls, the opening of the front of the house, and the tenderly putting of them away to bed in rooms they completely fill, train our little dears to the duties and the joys of motherhood. Toys! what wise child despises them? Art, fiction, the musical glasses: are they not preparing us for the time, however distant, when we shall at last be grown up?
In a maze of ways beyond the stage I lost myself, but eventually, guided by voices, came to a large room furnished barely with many chairs and worn settees, and here I found some twenty to thirty ladies and gentlemen already seated. They were of varying ages, sizes and appearance, but all of them alike in having about them that impossible-to-define but impossible-to-mistake suggestion of theatricality. The men were chiefly remarkable for having no hair on their faces, but a good deal upon their heads; the ladies, one and all, were blessed with remarkably pink and white complexions and exceptionally bright eyes. The conversation, carried on in subdued but penetrating voices, was chiefly of “him” and “her.” Everybody appeared to be on an affectionate footing with everybody else, the terms of address being “My dear,” “My love,” “Old girl,” “Old chappie,” Christian names – when name of any sort was needful – alone being employed. I hesitated for a minute with the door in my hand, fearing I had stumbled upon a family gathering. As, however, nobody seemed disconcerted at my entry, I ventured to take a vacant seat next to an extremely small and boyish-looking gentleman and to ask him if this was the room in which I, an applicant for a place in the chorus of the forthcoming comic opera, ought to be waiting.
He had large, fishy eyes, with which he looked me up and down. For such a length of time he remained thus regarding me in silence that a massive gentleman sitting near, who had overheard, took it upon himself to reply in the affirmative, adding that from what he knew of Butterworth we would all of us be waiting here a damned sight longer than any gentleman should keep other ladies and gentlemen waiting for no reason at all.
“I think it exceedingly bad form,” observed the fishy-eyed gentleman, in deep contralto tones, “for any gentleman to take it upon himself to reply to a remark addressed to quite another gentleman.”
“I beg your pardon,” retorted the large gentleman. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I think it very ill manners,” remarked the small gentlemen in the same slow and impressive tones, “for any gentleman to tell another gentleman, who happens to be wide awake, that he thought he was asleep.”
“Sir,” returned the massive gentleman, assuming with the help of a large umbrella a quite Johnsonian attitude, “I decline to alter my manners to suit your taste.”
“If you are satisfied with them,” replied the small gentleman, “I cannot help it. But I think you are making a mistake.”
“Does anybody know what the opera is about?” asked a bright little woman at the other end of the room.
“Does anybody ever know what a comic opera is about?” asked another lady, whose appearance suggested experience.
“I once asked the author,” observed a weary-looking gentleman, speaking from a corner. “His reply was: ‘Well, if you had asked me at the beginning of the rehearsals I might have been able to tell you, but damned if I could now!’”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” observed a good-looking gentleman in a velvet coat, “if there occurred somewhere in the proceedings a drinking chorus for male voices.”
“Possibly, if we are good,” added a thin lady with golden hair, “the heroine will confide to us her love troubles, which will interest us and excite us.”
The door at the further end of the room opened and a name was called. An elderly lady rose and went out.
“Poor old Gertie!” remarked sympathetically the thin lady with the golden hair. “I’m told that she really had a voice once.”
“When poor young Bond first came to London,” said the massive gentleman who was sitting on my left, “I remember his telling me he applied to Lord Barrymore’s ‘tiger,’ Alexander Lee, I mean, of course, who was then running the Strand Theatre, for a place in the chorus. Lee heard him sing two lines, and then jumped up. ‘Thanks, that’ll do; good morning,’ says Lee. Bond knew he had got a good voice, so he asked Lee what was wrong. ‘What’s wrong?’ shouts Lee. ‘Do you think I hire a chorus to show up my principals?’”
“Having regard to the company present,” commented the fishy-eyed gentleman, “I consider that anecdote as distinctly lacking in tact.”
The feeling of the company appeared to be with the fish-eyed young man.
For the next half hour the door at the further end of the room continued to open and close, devouring, ogre-fashion, each time some dainty human morsel, now chorus gentleman, now chorus lady. Conversation among our thinning ranks became more fitful, a growing anxiety making for silence.
At length, “Mr. Horace Moncrieff” called the voice of the unseen Charon. In common with the rest, I glanced round languidly to see what sort of man “Mr. Horace Moncrieff” might be. The door was pushed open further. Charon, now revealed as a pale-faced young man with a drooping moustache, put his head into the room and repeated impatiently his invitation to the apparently coy Moncrieff. It suddenly occurred to me that I was Mr. Horace Moncrieff.
“So glad you’ve found yourself,” said the pale-faced young man, as I joined him at the door. “Please don’t lose yourself again; we’re rather pressed for time.”
I crossed with him through a deserted refreshment bar – one of the saddest of sights – into a room beyond. A melancholy-looking gentleman was seated at the piano. Beside him stood a tall, handsome man, who was opening and reading rapidly from a bundle of letters he held in his hand. A big, burly, bored-looking gentleman was making desperate efforts to be amused at the staccato conversation of a sharp-faced, restless-eyed gentleman, whose peculiarity was that he never by any chance looked at the person to whom he was talking, but always at something or somebody else.
“Moncrieff?” enquired the tall, handsome man – whom I later discovered to be Mr. Hodgson, the manager – without raising his eyes from his letters.
The pale-faced gentleman responded for me.
“Fire away,” said Mr. Hodgson.
“What is it?” asked of me wearily the melancholy gentleman at the piano.
