Twopence Coloured (13 page)

With the band of nymphs opposite they had little or no communication. They were, indeed, treated by these with direct or implicit hauteur — and not unlike some cast-off and expiring swains were they, with respect to these, as opposed to the full-blooded and satyr-like qualities of the two
comedians
, who carried all before them. The finer, the successful type prevailed, and lingerie-serials were only for supermen.

But Jackie, who had no taste for lingerie-serials either, if it came to that, was not so fastidious, and could not
differentiate
so sharply. And so Jackie’s heart rather went out to the chorus men. And because her heart went out she was able to concede certain minute civilities, when the occasion arose, which it was not difficult, but was not usual, to concede. And so it came about, it is believed, that the rumour that Jackie was the Little Lady of the company, was a rumour prevalent in the men’s dressing-room, as well.

I
T is half-past six on Saturday evening, and Jackie, after a pleasant high tea supplied by Mrs. Grounds, is returning to the theatre. She is still, despite her tea and a short rest, a little giddy from the labour and stress of the matinée behind her, but she is gently reviving under the influence of the brisk, lit Saturday streets (which have revived
Saturday-evening
actors and actresses in the same way since the
beginning
of play-going), and she tells herself that she is, taken all in all, very happy and contented.

And she tells herself that she is an actress now, and that she can look back upon a clear achievement. And she is getting experience, she tells herself, and this cannot last so very long. And in so far as she has won out in this, her first and most arduous step — surely that is in itself some
demonstration
of her power to succeed throughout, and surely the heights are still for her victorious ascension.

And Jackie leaves the lighted shops, and takes to the quieter streets, and faces the stage door again, and walks quickly and confidently through.

But here she is arrested by the stage-doorkeeper, who after banging at his glass cage in an uncivil and excited manner, comes out and asks her if she is Miss Mortimer.

She confesses, not without some trepidation, to being this, and he hands her a parcel. This he does with a defiant and punitive air, and testily retires.

Jackie goes very white on receiving this, and does not appear to know what to do, for she does not know what it contains, but she knows from whom it comes, and is almost trembling in her eagerness to open it. And at last, after making for the stairs, she turns back again and goes out
into the street, to open it, if not in privacy, at least without interruption.

And she walks two hundred yards before she takes the thrilling plunge.

And it is a volume of Shelley’s poems (apparently quite impulsive, for she cannot imagine why) and a letter.

And
“My
dear
Jackie,”
says this letter.
“Thank
you
for
your
letter.
Got
this
for
you
yesterday.
Hope
to
meet
you
some
time
if
we
’
re
anywhere
near
each
other.
Let
me
hear
your
dates
and
addresses.
Yours
ever,
R.
G.”

And it is in a very elated and serene frame of mind that she returns to the theatre again, and goes in.

And what a different going-in is this, with her book under her arm! It is as though he has given her his own strength, as though he has joined forces with her, and that little volume is a little sword wherewith she may meet and do battle with all that may come her way. She feels no longer quite
defenceless
, and no longer quite alone.

*

But she is five minutes late already, and as she climbs the stairs she can hear a thick flow of talk, behind shut doors, from the packed dressing-rooms — a thick bubbling flow relieved every other moment by the sound of high cackling laughter, or strident challenge, or off-hand
imprecation
. And she opens the door of her own room and goes in.

And in this room are the Misses Cherry Lambert, and Honour Lang, and Effie Byng, and Biddy Maxwell, and Hazel Parry, and Dolly True, and Belle Hawke, and Dot Delane. All are present, in fact, and all are in the best of spirits, and all are in an advanced stage of undress — with the exception, that is, of Miss Biddy Maxwell, who is by the door, and whose existence is temporarily suspended, and vision temporarily blinded, by her dress, which she is hauling over head, with athletic motions, for the purpose of removal.

And Jackie’s opening of the door seems to waft out into the passage, for one swift moment, the pungent air of flexible and sensuous femininity that is within — but she closes the door at once, and the secret is intact. And from the other
side of the door it may still appear to be a secret — and a very tantalizing and enthralling secret at that — but once in here, and there is no mystery whatever. No ascetic, having entrance here, need fear for his poise — only the rake might flee in horror from the immediate destruction of his cherished
beliefs
. For from here the breath of languor is expelled, and all feminine blandishment replaced by a vitality and overbearing practicality that does not challenge, but implicitly refutes illusion. This is a place of flesh, and blood, and sinew, and human need. This is not Revelation; it is letting the cat out of the bag. And if the door is shut fast (as of course it is), it is surely so shut as a protection less from the ardours than from the instant despondence of man, who could enter here (and such invasions are not unknown), as eunuchs might have entered a harem of old — disenchanted, liberated, as by magic, from his normal instincts.

There is quite a chorus of welcome as Jackie comes in — an ironic “Hooray!” in the friendliest of spirits, and much surprise that Jackie, of all persons, should be late. And “She’s got a Book, too,” says Miss Biddy Maxwell, coming into the world again. And Jackie is putting her book down on the shelf and commencing to undress.

There is a kind of energetic rustling all around her, and for a moment no one is speaking. But this is broken by Miss Cherry Lambert, a frivolous girl of about twenty-eight, who is highly interested in Jackie’s peculiarities and
temperament
, and who now, to Jackie’s horror (since all are
listening
), addresses her.

“Well, Jackie, been ————?” asks Miss Lambert, whose remarks are frequently, and for long stretches, unprintable.

“Been what?” asks Jackie, to whom Miss Lambert’s
remarks
are not unprintable, since they are not understood.

There are glances from each to each amongst the girls, and here Miss Delane cuts in.

“Don’t you know what a —— is, Jackie?” asks Miss Delane.

“No,” says Jackie, blushing.

“‘No,’ said she, blushing,” says Miss Biddy Maxwell, who
is given to reporting her friends’ speeches and mannerisms in this way, being of a derisive turn of mind, and far from friendly towards Jackie.

Miss Delane elucidates the mystery.

“Oh,” says Jackie.

“‘Oh,’ said she,” says Miss Biddy Maxwell.

There is a silence.

“Then you haven’t been doing
nothing
since we saw you last, Jackie,” affirms Miss Lambert, in friendly tones.

“No,” says Jackie.

“Nothing will Come of Nothing,” says Miss Dot Delane. “Ain’t that so?”

“Sure,” says Miss Effie Byng, and it appears that a great truth has been hit upon.

“That’s Shakespeare, ain’t it, Jackie?” asks Miss Delane, plainly appealing to an expert.

“
I
don’t know,” says Jackie.

“Oh, I thought you knew all about Shakespeare,” says Miss Delane.

“Why should I?” asks Jackie.

“What? —
don’t
you, Jackie?” asks Miss Dolly True, who is next to Jackie at the dressing-shelf, and who speaks with some concern. “I thought you was a Reader.”

“Well, I may read a bit,” says Jackie. “But I don’t know anything about Shakespeare.”

“Said she,” caps Miss Biddy Maxwell, who considers this eminently and exquisitely worthy of report.

“Shakespeare? Hooz Shakespeare?” asks Miss Belle Hawke, in her thick, heavy voice, from the end of the room.

No one enlightens Miss Hawke.

“You can ’
ave
the old bastard,” adds Miss Hawke,
bestowing
the dramatist with less magnanimity than vindictiveness upon her neighbours. She also adds that she will Shake his Something Else (in a moment).

There is a silence. They are now all facing their mirrors and smarming in their number five.

“The Tragedy of King Lear,” says Miss Hawke, with great significance….

“I read Shakespeare at our school,” offers Miss Dolly True. “We acted ‘The Merchant of Venice.’”

(“With Nobs On,” says Miss Biddy Maxwell quietly, but as one who would depreciate the achievement.)

“The Dark Lady of the Sonnets,” says Miss Hawke, again irrelevantly, but with the same air of implacable grudge against this author….

There is another long, greasy silence.

“Mr. William Bloody Shakespeare,” murmurs Miss Hawke, in the middle of this greasy silence.

“What’s your book, Jackie?” asks Miss Cherry Lambert, in an off-hand way. This young woman’s enormous curiosity with respect to Jackie and her quiet, mysterious ways, seldom leaves her alone for long.

“Well …” says Jackie, and does not know what to say. “I don’t know, really…. It was sent me….” Happily Miss Biddy Maxwell here cuts in.

“Well, I got many things in my time,” says she. “But I never got books.”

“No,” says Miss Lambert, “————.” Not Miss
Lambert’s
words, but rather her ideas, are unprintable.

The girls laugh.

Suddenly, “Come on, what’s ’er book?” cries Miss True, and snatches at it, and begins to read.

“Oh, my word!” announces Miss True. “It’s Poetry!”

“Jesus wept!” cries Miss Delane, genuinely overpowered.

“Poetry?” cries Miss Hawke. “
I
know some
Poetry!
’’ And Miss Hawke says this with the utmost bitterness and rancour, and it is clear that it is a very different kind of Poetry that she knows.

“Percy — Buysher — Shelley,” reads Miss True. “My word!”

“Oh, Perssaye!” cries Miss Hawke, who is becoming
positively
querulous.

“But I expect he’s a fine poet, though, ain’t he, Jackie?” asks Miss True, with some deference.

(Miss Maxwell adds Nobs to
this
conception, as well.)

“Yes. I think he is rather good,” says Jackie.

Here Miss Hawke again arrogantly reveals herself as no woman of letters, by remarking that she (if given Five
Minutes
for the purpose) would take some of the Shell out of him.

“Sure. I guess he’s one of the greatest,” says Miss Hazel Parry, who has hardly spoken before. And because Miss Parry speaks quietly, and because Miss Parry has hardly spoken before, and because Miss Parry has the reputation of being the Clever Girl in this company, this remark carries great weight, and there is a silence.

The breath of scholarship, indeed, is for the moment chilling.

But at this moment Miss Delane comes forward, and
having
the flimsiest of clothes upon her person, strikes a
mock-athletic
attitude, and offers to Wrestle some one.

Which challenge is taken up by Miss Biddy Maxwell, who is similarly clothed, and who takes some pride in her strength.

“Come on, then,” says Miss Maxwell. “I’ll Wrestle you.”

“All right, I’ll Wrestle you,” says Miss Delane.

But although both ladies assume Japanese positions, and declare with great firmness that they will Wrestle each other — neither of the two ladies give, at present, any
manifestations
of being about to close.

“I’ll Wrestle you,” says Miss Delane.

“Come on, I’ll Wrestle you, then,” says Miss Maxwell.

“Go on, Wrestle, you two,” urges Miss True.

“Wrestle her, Biddy,” urges Miss Lambert.

“All right, then,” says Miss Delane. “I’ll Wrestle her.” And she seizes her friend with diffident antagonism around the neck.

Whereat both ladies begin to pant very hard, and to push very hard, and to look very amiable very hard, and to grit their teeth and strain. And Miss Dot Delane, who is clearly Losing, grants a magnanimous “My, ain’t she strong!” and Miss Biddy Maxwell, who is clearly Winning, repeats, with humorous vindictiveness, that she will Wrestle her. And both young ladies are smiling the wrong side of their faces. And “Go on,
Wrestle
her, Dot!” cry Miss Delane’s
sup
porters
, and “Go on,
Wrestle
her, Biddy!” cry Miss
Maxwell’s
supporters, while Miss Hawke makes technical but rather caustic allusions to Half Nelsons. And at last there is a sudden withdrawal of strength, and both fall on to the floor with a heavy bump. But Miss Biddy Maxwell is well on top, and Miss Dot Delane is seen to be frowning and quiet — Hurt, in fact.

“Did I Hurt you, Dot?” asks Miss Maxwell.

“No — you’re too Rough,” says Miss Delane, and it is clear that she is upset.

“You’re Hurt, aren’t you, Dot?” asks Miss True.

“Oh no, I’m not Hurt. She’s too Rough, though.”

“Well, it was only Fun,” says Miss Maxwell. “Sorry if I hurt you though, Dot.”

“Oh, I guess that’s all right.”

There is a sharp double bang upon the door. “Quartnar Peas!” cries the call-boy. And recedingly down the passage he does the same. “Quartnar Peas! … Quartnar Peas! … Quartnar Peas! …”

“Lord, there’s the quarter,” says Miss Delane, returning to her place. And she has now quite recovered and is a little jealous of her prestige. “I guess I fell the wrong way, then, Biddy,” she adds lightly. “We’ll have another go some other time.”

And “Yes,” says Miss Dolly True, coming to her aid. “You’re a good match, you two.”

And for one passing moment it occurs to Jackie, who has watched this little episode from the beginning, that she has, perhaps, judged harshly of these — that each of these
individuals
is, if she but knew, the same solitary, defensive,
defeated
, striving creature as herself…. But the moment is a passing one.

There is now little time, and the conversation succumbs to the exertions of dressing. After ten minutes the call-boy returns to bellow “Oavtewer Peas!” at them, and they go in couples, or alone, down on to the stage, which is strongly lit in the set, but dark behind (where Jack and Lew, as
impudent
as ever, are already engaged in serials).

Jackie has brought her book down with her, and all through the show she is hugging it to herself, and glimpsing slyly at its pages, and putting it down, when she has to perform, on a little property table in the dark, and coming back
immediately
afterwards to embrace it again.