Complete Works of Bram Stoker (419 page)

‘When we was startin’ the season Mr Santander sent for me and spoke to me about Miss Amontillado, and told me that it was as much as my plyce was worth if anything went wrong with ‘er. I told ‘im as ‘ow I’d do my best, and I took Miss Amontillado aside, and, ses I, “Miss, it’s temptin’ providence it is,” says I, “for a fine, strapping young lydy as you in britches like them,” I says. “You do kick about that free,” I says; “and satin is only satin at the best, and though the stryn is usual on it in the right direction up and down, there’s the stryn on yours all round. What if I was you I wouldn’t take no chances,” I says. Well, she laughed, and says she, “Well, you dear old geeser” - for she was a young lydy as was alwys kind and affable to her inferiors - “and what would you do if you was me?” “Well, miss,” I says, “if I was as gifted as you is, I’d have them made on webbin’ what’d ‘old, and wouldn’t show if the wust come to the wust.” She only laughed, and gave me sixpence, and, says she, “You’re a good ole sort, Sniffles” - for that’s what some of the young ones called me - “and I’ll tell Smack how well you look after me. Then perhaps he’ll raise your screw.”

‘Both Mr Santander and Miss Amontillado was anxious about the first night, and there was bets in the dressin’-room as to how she’d come off in ‘er ‘igh-kickin’ act. You’ll remember, Mrs Solomon, ‘ow the ply goes, as ‘ow to the surprise of all, the young Society gal as didn’t do nothin’ more nor a skirt-dance, sudden ups and tykes the kyke from all the perfeshionals. When Miss Amontillado was dressed for the act in her shepherd dress, I says to her, “Now miss,” I says, “do be keerful”; and Mr Santander ‘e says, “‘Ear! ‘ear!” ‘e says. “Oh, I’m all right,” she says. “Look ‘ere, Smack,” and she ups and does a split as made my ‘eart jump, it was that sudden, and up on her ‘eels agin afore you could say Jack Robinson!

‘Well, just then I ‘eard the Call-Boy a-comin’ down the passidge ‘ollerin’, “Miss Amontillado! Miss Amontillado!” “‘Ere!” she says; and as he came into the room she puts ‘er ‘ands over ‘er ‘ead and does a sal-lam that low that ‘er back ‘air nigh swept the floor. And lo and behold! as she bent I ‘ears a ‘ideous crack; and there was ‘er back up and down in two ‘alves as you’d ‘ave put a sweepin’ brush atween.

‘“Now you’ve done it, Miss,” I says; and there was she laughin’ and cryin’ all in a moment, for it weren’t no joke to ‘er to ‘ave her big scene queered like that the fust time as she done it. And there was Mr Santander a-tearin’ at ‘is ‘air - which there wasn’t none too much of it - and ‘im a-bullyin’ of ‘er dreadful, and sayin’ as ‘ow ‘e’d cancel ‘er engygement - which ‘e weren’t no gentleman, that ‘e weren’t. And all the time the Call-Boy yellin’ out, “Miss Amontillado, there’ll be a styge wyte!” and ‘im fit to bust laughin’. Impident young monkey! I knew as ‘ow if anything was to be done it must be done quick, so I whips out a big sailmaker’s needle what we sewed canvas with and the tapes on the stair-treads, an’ a lot of waxend twine as I kep’ for fixin’ reefs in the ballet shoes; for it wasn’t no child’s play as to them britches with a fine gal like that, and them so tight. I tried to get a holt of the two sides of the tear to bring ‘em together; but, lor’ bless you! the reef was that wide I couldn’t get ‘em close any’ow. The dresser that was in with me, she tried to ‘elp; but it weren’t no use. And then Mr Santander ‘e kem and ‘ad a try, but it weren’t no go. Then I tykes the Call-Boy by the ‘air of ‘is ‘ead and mykes ‘im ketch ‘old too, ‘im bein’ a bicyclist and ‘is fingers that ‘ard. Then the gas-man came to ‘elp with two sets of pinchers; but all we could do we couldn’t make them sides of that split meet.

‘We was all in despair and the time goin’ by; we could ‘ear the ‘ootin’ in front at the wayt, and the styge-manager kem tearin’ along, yellin’ and cursin’ and shoutin’ out, “What in ‘ell is wrong? Where is the bally girl? Why don’t she ‘urry up?”

‘At that very moment a hinspiration came to me. It was a hinspiration an’ nothink else, for there was that there poor gal’s success at styke, much less ‘er situation. “‘Ere,” say I, “my dear, just you lie down on the sofy on yer fyce, with yer bust on the cushing and yer toes out with yer ‘eels in the air.” She sor in a flash what I were up to, and chucked ‘erself on the sofy, and the Call-Boy shoved a bolster under ‘er instep. My! but she bent up double that’ard that I ‘eard the webbin’ of the abominable belt as she wore go crack.

‘But, lydies and gents, the situation was saved; the roos was a pernounced success. Them two distant hedges kem together like twins a-kissin’, and afore you could say “Boo!” I ‘ad my needle and was a-sewin’ of ‘em up that firm. I was in such a ‘urry that some of the stitches took in the skin as well as the satin. But she was a plucky gal, and tho’ she ‘owled, she didn’t wriggle away. There wasn’t no time to cut the thread, and as soon as the last stitch was in she jumps up, tearin’ the stitches through her skin, and bounds out on the styge with the needle ‘anging’ be’ind. Mind you, ‘er blood was up, and she landed on to the styge like a good ‘un.

‘The roar that come from the Johnnies when they see ‘er was good to ‘ear!

‘But this is nothin’ to do with what I was goin’ to tell you about that story of the dead byby -’

‘Oh! blow the dead baby,’ said the Second Low Comedian. ‘Put it in a bottle and keep it on the shelf till called for. After an act of living valour like what you’ve told us, we don’t want anything dead.’

‘Next!’ said the MC, in the pause that ensued.

The Low Comedian being next in order had been gradually becoming more ill at ease as his own time approached; it was manifest that in the armoury of his craft was no weapon suited to deal with a necessity of extempore narration. Some of those on whom he was accustomed to sharpen his wits knew, either instinctively or by experience, of this weakness, and commenced to redress or avenge whatever they might have suffered at his hands. They began by encouragement, outwardly genuine and hearty, but with an underlying note of irony which could not fail to wound a spirit sensitive on the point of its own importance:

‘Buck up, old man.’

‘Drive on, Gags.’

‘Have a drink first. You’re always funnier afterwards.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked the indignant Low Comedian, fiercely. ‘What do you mean by “afterwards”? Do you mean when I’m drunk, or have had too much, or what?’

‘Only a joke!’ said the Prompter, in a deprecatory way, for his was the unhappy remark. The Heavy Father who was usually one of his butts struck in:

‘He probably meant that you were funnier in your intention after the opportunity of being funny had existed as a fact.’ The Low Comedian did not see his way to a fitting reply, so he replied to the arrow with a stone:

‘Indeed! If I was you, old man, I would try Irish! It’s sometimes hard to understand you through Scotch!’

‘Time!’ cried out the MC, anxious to prevent what looked like the beginning of a quarrel. The bottle, or I should say the Tribune, rests with Mr Parmentire.’ The Low Comedian looked at the fire reflectively for a few seconds; then he passed his hand through his hair, and after glaring all round the Company, began:

‘I suppose you know, Ladies and Gentlemen, that there is a current idea that a Low Comedian must be always humorous.’ He was interrupted by the Tragedian, who, prefacing his remark with a Mephistophelean Ha-ha-ha! said:

‘If there is, it is a mistake; or, at best, an exploded idea. Surely, humour is the last quality to be expected from a Comedian, let alone a Low Comedian. But, of course, I may be prejudiced; I never took much stock of the horse-collar myself’

‘Si-lence! Si-lence!’ said the watchful MC in the manner of a Court crier, whilst the Leading Juvenile whispered to the Prompter:

‘Bones got in at him for the dead baby fingers that time.’ The Low Comedian went on:

‘Well, if humour in private life is expected, it’s not always to be had, as Bones has very properly implied in his best knock-down-and- drag-out manner, however we may deceive the public by our arts and utterances in public.

A NEW DEPARTURE IN ART

‘I remember once being called on to be humorous under circumstances which made me feel that fun was as difficult to catch as a bat with a fishing rod.’ With the cultivated instinct of listeners, which all actors must be able to pretend to be, the Company gave simultaneously that movement of eagerness which implies a strained attention. The perfection and simultaneity of the movement was art, but the spirit of truth lay behind it, for all felt whatever was coming was real. The Low Comedian, with the trained instinct of an actor, felt that his audience was with him - en rapport - and allowed himself a thought more breadth in his manner as he proceeded:

‘I was playing “Con” in The Shaughraun for want of a better, having been put into the part because I could manage a kind of brogue. We had a wretched Company, and we went to wretched places, places nearly bad enough to do us justice. At last we found ourselves in a little town on the west side of the Bog of Allen. It was hopeless business, for the people were poor; the room we played in was an awful hole, and the shebeen which they called a hotel where we all stayed was a holy terror. The dirt on the floor had caked, and felt like sand under your feet. As to the beds -’

‘Oh, don’t, Mr Parmentire; it’s too dreadful!’ said the Leading Lady, shuddering. So he went on:

‘Anyhow, the audience - what there was of them - were fine. They weren’t used to play-acting, and I think most of them took what they saw as reality - certainly while the curtain was up. We played three nights; the second night when I came out a big-made young man came up to me and said:

‘“Kin I have a wurrd wid ye, sorr?”

‘“Begob! but ye may,” said I, in as near a brogue as I could get to his. “Twinty av ye loike!”

‘“Then whisper me,” said he, and, taking me by the arm, he led me across the street where we were alone. “What is it?” I asked.

‘“I seen ye, sorr, at the wake to-night. Begorra, but it was an illigant toime. Shure the fun iv that would have done good to a rale corpse, much less to his frinds. I wondher now wud ye care to do a neighbourly act?” He said, this with considerable diffidence. There was something genial and winning in his way, as there is generally with Irishmen; so I said as heartily as I could that I hoped I would, and asked him how I could do it. His face brightened as he answered:

‘“Well, there’s a wake to-night, a rale wake, yer ann’r, at Kenagh beyant and the widdy is in a most dishtressful state intirely. Now, av yer ann’r as is used to the divarshins iv wakes would come, shure it might help to cheer her up. It’s only a rough place, surr, an’ the byes an’ the girrls is all there is; but there’s lashins iv whiskey an’ tobaccy, an’ wan iv the quality like yer ann’r will be mighty welkim.”

‘That did it! For a man who took me for one of the quality I would have done anything! I tell you, you have to be mucking about for a spell in such places as we had been, and treated with the contempt which used to be the actor’s meed in his private life in such places in my young days, to appreciate fully the help such a thing was to one’s self-esteem. I told my pals that I was going to a local party, for I didn’t want to disturb my new dignity all at once, and went off with my friend. We went on a donkey cart without springs. Such a cart, and such a road! There was a bundle of straw to sit on, so I was comfortable enough; except when the jolting through an unusually deep rut banged me about more than was consistent with physical self-restraint. At last we stopped where a small house stood back some hundred yards from the road. The light was coming through the little windows and the open door, that seemed quite bright through the inky blackness of the night. I separated myself from the straw as well as I could, and got down. A small boy appeared out of the darkness, like an attendant demon, and took away the donkey and cart. It seemed to fade into space, for, as it disappeared through a gap in the hedge, the wheels ceased to sound upon the soft turf. My friend said:

‘“Stiddy, surr! the boreen is a bit rough!” He was right; it was! I stumbled towards the house through what seemed the bed of a small watercourse floored with peculiarly uneven boulders. When we got near the house, the light from within told more on the darkness, and as we came close to the projecting porch, the white oblong of the open doorway to the right became darkened as a figure came out to meet us - an elderly woman with grey hair and a white cap and a black dress. She curtsied when she saw my dress, and said with a certain air of distinction that most Irish-women have in their moments of reserve, and which all good women have in their grief:

‘“Welkim, yer ann’r. I thank ye kindly for pathernisin’ this house iv woe!”

‘“God save all here!” said my cicerone as he removed his caubeen.

‘I repeated the salutation, feeling a little bit chokey about the throat as I followed the woman into the house.

‘The room was a good-sized one, for it was no peasant’s hut I was in, but a substantial farmhouse. Seated about it were some thirty or forty people of both sexes, old and young. Nearly all the men were smoking, some short cutty pipes as black as your hat, others long churchwardens, which manifestly came from a batch which lay on a table beside a substantial roll of “Limerick twist.” The tobacco was strong, and so were the lungs of the smokers, so the room was in a sort of thick haze, which swayed about in visible wreaths whenever a passing gust drove in through the open door. There was a huge fire of turf on the hearth, over which hung a great black kettle puffing steam like a locomotive. The air was fragrant with whiskey punch, of which some great jugs were scattered about. The guests drank from all kinds of vessels of glass, crockery, tin, and wood, each of which seemed pro bono publico, for they were attacked at times by those nearest with the utmost impartiality. As there was manifestly not seating room for so many people, a good many of the women, old as well as young, sat on the men’s knees in the most matter-of-fact way and with the utmost decorum.

‘My cicerone, who was on all sides saluted as “Dan,” took a pipe from the table and filled it. One of the girls, shifting from her living stool, took a blazing turf from the fire with the tongs, and held it to him as a light. He then helped himself to punch from the nearest vessel, looking round the room and repeating the salutation: “God save all here!”