Twopence Coloured (29 page)

“Now let’s have that again,” said Mr. Marsden, looking a trifle severe. “Really — this is impossible.”

“Really, this is impossible,” said Miss Logan.

“No,” said Mr. Marsden, with patience. “Not Really, this is impossible.
Really
— this is impossible.”

“Really,” said Miss Logan. “This is impossible.”

“Really,
this is impossible,” said Mr. Marsden.

“Really, this is impossible,” said Miss Logan.

“Really,”
said Mr. Marsden, “this is impossible.”

“Really,”
said Miss Logan, “this is
impossible.”

There was a pause.

Mr. Marsden took a breath.

“Really
— this is impossible,” said Mr. Marsden.

“Really, this is impossible.”

“My God!” cried Mr. Marsden. “Now you’re saying Really this is impossible!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Miss Logan. “I thought I was saying Really this is impossible.”

“May I ask,” cried Mr. Marsden, “whether you’re trying to say Really this is impossible or Really this is impossible?”

“I’m trying to say Really this is impossible.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Marsden. “Then why don’t you say it?”

“I am. I said Really this is impossible.”

There was a pause.

“Let’s start again, shall we?” said Mr. Marsden.

“Yes,” said Miss Logan.

Mr. Marsden took another deep breath. “Really ——” began Mr. Marsden.

“Sorry,” said Miss Logan, parenthetically.

“What?” asked Mr. Marsden.

“I only said I was sorry.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Marsden.

They looked at each other.

“Really
this is impossible,” said Mr. Marsden.

“Really, this is impossible,” said Miss Logan.

There was a heavy silence.

Mr. Marsden now placed himself in the wrong.

“REALLY!” bellowed Mr. Marsden. “THIS—IS—IM—POSSY—BULL!”

Miss Logan also had a temper.

“REALLY!” rejoined Miss Logan. “THIS—IS—IM—POSSY—BULL!”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Marsden, but he was speaking ironically.

*

The other occasion upon which Mr. Marsden was led into an exhibition of spleen was on the ninth day of rehearsal, when Mr. Marsden, taking it into his head to have an extra chair upon the stage, quietly bagged one that he had
discovered
in the prompt corner, and innocently continued the rehearsal.

In doing this he offended the susceptibilities of the theatre carpenter and general factotum, Mr. Crabbe (a man of great distinction in this actual theatre), who had taken a furious dislike to Mr. Marsden already, and who had had orders from his own immediate employer that this chair was not to be moved.

Mr. Crabbe, therefore, at the earliest opportunity, and with a view to saving discussion, had quietly come forward and returned it to its place.

Which procedure, taking place unobserved by Mr.
Marsden
, caused some mystification in that producer five minutes afterwards. He had no difficulty in finding the chair again, however, and again placed it on the stage.

Mr. Crabbe being downstairs at this moment, on other business, the rehearsal was allowed to continue for a full quarter of an hour, and Mr. Marsden went and sat down in the stalls. At the end of which period, and during a most affecting moment in the drama, a figure emerged from the wings, and quietly removed a chair.

Whereat Mr. Marsden, jumping up from the stalls, very violently replaced a chair, and jumped down again.

Whereat, after the lapse of two minutes, a figure emerged from the wings and removed a chair.

At which it seemed that something of a deadlock had been reached.

There was, however, one expedient left to Mr. Marsden. He could jump up and replace this chair. He availed himself of this. The company looked slightly baffled. “
Please
go on. Don’t take any notice,” said Mr. Marsden to the company.

But there was, unhappily, a similar expedient open to Mr. Crabbe. He also made use of it.

At which Mr. Marsden spoke.

“Will you kindly leave that chair alone?” asked Mr. Marsden.

“You can’t ’ave
this
chair, Mr. Marsden,” said Mr. Crabbe. “Mr. Bringham said it wasn’t to be moved.”

“Will you kindly put that chair back?” asked Mr. Marsden.

“No, Mr. Marsden. Mr. Bringham said it wasn’t to be moved.”

“Will you kindly obey my orders and put that chair back?” said Mr. Marsden.

“I take my orders from Mr. Bringham, Mr. Marsden.”

“See here, my man, put that chair back, or there’ll be trouble for you!” said Mr. Marsden.

“Oo you calling ‘my man’?” asked Mr. Crabbe, offensively.

“
I
’
m
calling you my man!” cried Mr. Marsden, arrogantly, and he jumped upon the stage.

“Oo you bloody well calling ‘my man’?” asked Mr. Crabbe.

The antagonists glared into each other’s eyes, and there was a pause.

“There’s no need to Get Sanguinary,” said Mr. Marsden,
huskily, and holding his opponent’s eye with a reproachful and deadly look.

“Oo you calling ——!”

“NO EARTHLY NEED TO GET SANGUINARY!” thundered Mr. Marsden.

There was a death-like stillness.

“You happen to be amongst gentlepeople,” muttered Mr. Marsden.

“Oh,
do
I, indeed?”

“You HAPPEN,” repeated Mr. Marsden, “to be amongst GENTLEPEOPLE!”

Mr. Crabbe did not reply to this, but glared a great deal.

“Not used to it, I fear,” said Mr. Marsden, with a bitter sneer.

Mr. Crabbe succumbed. “Well, you wait and ’ear what Mr. Bringham says, that’s all,” he said, and walked of! the stage.

“Not used to it, I fear!” muttered Mr. Marsden, pacing up and down, in a sinister manner.

The company stared submissively at Mr. Marsden.

“Come. We’ve had enough of this,” he said. “The
rehearsal’s
finished. We’ll start again this afternoon, at
half-past
two.”

The company dispersed.

*

Shortly afterwards Jackie encountered Mr. Marsden in a passage.

“Well, thank God,” said Mr. Marsden, smiling grimly, “that whatever else, one can at least Preserve one’s Sense of Humour.”

T
HE WOMAN OF TEMPERAMENT’S” first night obtained a mild reception, and the translator, having stood palely trembling for some time in the wings, felt
justified
in coming forward and making a speech. Mr. Marsden said that he could Only say Thank you, but succeeded in only saying this for a period of five minutes without stoppage. The members of the audience were rather vague as to what he was thanking them about, but felt sure they had done something very pretty, and thanked him back with their hands.

The play was only booked to run a week at the “
Barnstormer
” — it being hoped that it would soon afterwards find a home in Town. But it did not do this. It came off on Saturday and was never heard of again. The labour of the rehearsals took on an ineffectual aspect. Mr. Marsden had lost his temper for nothing.

Jackie, however, was lucky enough to get another
engagement
almost immediately afterwards, and again at the “Barnstormer” Theatre. This she did through the
influence
of Mr. Bringham, who had taken a fancy to her performances.

The new show was entitled “North,” dealt with mounted policemen in another continent, and was produced by Mr. John Grashion, a young American, who also took the leading part. This show also came off at the end of the week and was never heard of again.

Mr. Grashion’s producing technique was unlike any Jackie
had encountered so far. His method was rapturous praise for all and everything, tempered by palpitating suggestions of his own. Only his suggestions were not corrections — merely blissful inspirations for improving the almost
unimprovable
. And the word “Bully” was Mr. Grashion’s medium of joy.

“That’s Bully!” Mr. Grashion would cry. “That’s jes’ Bully! … Keep it like that, old boy — keep it like that! … Don’t budge an inch! … That’s jes’ Bully! … Of course, if you
cared
to take it a bit quicker, old boy, it
might
improve it just a
weeny
bit
…. But don’t trouble, old boy; it’s Bully. Jes’ Bully! … And if you
could
face the audience a little more towards the end of that long speech, it might look better, just from the
front,
as it were, old boy. But I don’t want to worry you. It’s Bully….”

“It’s all right, then?” he would be asked.

“All right, old boy? All right! It’s Bully. It’s jes’ Bully! Of course, we’ll have to find some business for you while you’re watching him speak. You’re looking a bit lost just for a moment or two. But you can easily work something out, can’t you? And otherwise it’s fine —
fine!”

There would be a pause.

“Now let’s have
all
that again,” Mr. Grashion would add, with a sweep of his hand. “It’s Bully. Jes’ Bully.”

*

Jackie’s performance was described as Bully.

It was in this show that Jackie made her first acquaintance with what she believed was called Temperament. This was provided by Mr. Richard Leggitt, a very clever young actor of about thirty-five, who had lately risen to some fame and popularity within the circle of the play-going public.

Mr. Leggitt, on the sixth day of rehearsal, and during a scene of grave moment and excitement, all at once threw up his hands, lifted his eyes to heaven, clasped his head, and paced over to the other side of the stage.

There was an interested silence.

“What’s the matter, old boy?” asked Mr. Grashion, with humility.

“It’s all right, old boy,” said Mr. Leggitt. “It’s quite all right. I can’t act, that’s all. I can’t act.”

“Why, old boy,” said Mr. Grashion, “I thought it was bully.”

Mr. Leggitt did not reply to this, but paced up and down with his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes cast upwards, as one who suffers in his stomach.

“Nothing to worry about in
that,
old boy,” said Mr. Grashion.

“It’s quite all right,” said Mr. Leggitt, waving Mr.
Grashion’s
helpfulness aside with his hand. “I’ve merely
forgotten
how to act. Just forgotten. That’s all it is.”

The stage-manager said that he personally thought that Mr. Leggitt had been acting better than ever, and the rest of the company diffidently grunted an endorsement.

There was a long pause.

“It’s just Temperament, that’s all,” said the
stage-manager
, reassuringly….

“It’s quite all right,” said Mr. Leggitt, looking at the floor, and speaking to himself. “I simply cannot
Act.
I simply
Can
—
Not
—
Act.
It’s quite all right.”

They were clearly not to worry. It was, if anything, rather nicer not to be able to act, than to be able to. There was no cause for alarm on his behalf.

Time passed.

“What’s that damn line?” asked Mr. Leggitt.

The rehearsal proceeded.

This, however, was not the sole glimpse of Temperament afforded to Jackie during this show. Mr. Grashion was also attacked. The company was not to worry about Mr. Grashion, either. He Simply Could not Remember a line. That was all. It was quite all right.

He put his head in his hands, as he sat in the chair.

“Why not give it up, old boy?” asked Mr. Leggitt.

For a long time Mr. Grashion did not reply.

“Just want to cry,” murmured Mr. Grashion at last, in a husky voice, from his hands….

“Come along, old boy, give it up.”

“Jus’ cry,” murmured Mr. Grashion. “Sit’n weep….”

“Now then, old boy.”

Mr. Grashion rubbed his eyes with his hands, like a sleeper casting off a dream, looked around vaguely, murmured “
Forgive
me all you people,” and plunged his head into his hands again. He emitted a sob.

A Breakdown, obviously. Mr. Leggitt now spoke a trifle less kindly. This was not only because Mr. Leggitt had half intended to have a Breakdown himself, a little later, and had now, through delay, let some one else get in first: it was also because he felt that in any case Mr. Grashion was
poaching
upon his own temperamental preserves. He had, indeed, an annoyed feeling that Mr. Grashion was cribbing.

“Well, old boy,” he said. “If you won’t come off …”

Mr. Grashion, detecting annoyance in his friend’s voice, spitefully decided to go on with his Breakdown. He was aware, in his heart of hearts, that he was cribbing, but was sure he could do as well as Mr. Leggitt when once he got started. He therefore sprang to his feet.

“Take it away!” he cried. “For God’s sake take it all away!”

He was alluding to the theatre in general. A truly awful moment. To such can hysteria reduce a man.

Breathing hard, he was led off by Mr. Leggitt and the stage-manager. He put his wrists together as they urged him along, vaguely confusing himself with a condemned criminal, and feeling the lack of handcuffs.

A
ND then, with amazing suddenness, the whole of Jackie and Richard’s routine was changed, and they were packing up to go on tour again. They were going out in a domestic drama called “The Chatterers,” which was being backed by its author, Mr. H. L. Crawley, who wished Jackie and Richard to play the leading parts. Mr. Crawley, a quiet little man with the knack of successful plays, had a great admiration for Jackie and Richard, whom (he declared) he hoped to see one day established as the English Guitrys. He himself, indeed, desired to aid them towards that
achievement
. Richard and Jackie thought it would be rather a good idea to be the English Guitrys — provided some one was going to pay for it — (and the cost, they believed, would be enormous) — and they accepted Mr. Crawley’s offer with some scepticism but little hesitation.

“The Chatterers” was first to visit Sheffield, and then Birmingham, and then Manchester, and then Edinburgh, and then Aberdeen — and then it was to come to Town.

But Jackie and Richard never got farther than Sheffield.

That last night, in their Kensington flat, was crowned with a sweet peace and nearness to each other such as Jackie, ever afterwards, did not dare recall. It was almost as if they knew. They sat over the fire, as on their first night together, and they did nothing but talk. She sat on the floor, and held his knees, and prodded the soft parts of the coal with the poker (a passion of hers), and watched the flames playing over his warm and contented face. And every
now and again he would kiss her, and then she would go on prodding….

And at a quarter past eleven, just as they were going to bed, they had a great surprise. The little bell rang, scaring them out of their wits.

“Burglars!” whispered Jackie.

But it wasn’t Burglars, as Jackie, if she had only thought for a moment, would have realized, and as a dressing-gowned Richard went downstairs to demonstrate. It was Charles.

He had only arrived in London that night, and was full of explanations for the late call (he was off to Brussels for a holiday to-morrow), and the fire was restarted, and the drinks were got out, and they all stayed up till half-past twelve.

A strange but cheerful trio, at the top of a Kensington flat at midnight. There was a kind of spell over that night, Jackie thought afterwards. And it seemed that Charles, too, in some magic way, was aware of its enchantment and
curiousness
, and was aware of what was to befall. She noticed how he kept on looking about him, at the furnishings, the pictures, at the whole flat, and most strangely, and in a rather too prolonged way, at herself and Richard. He knew, too, though it was quite impossible to know.

But she thought all this afterwards. She was very happy on this night. And when Charles went (he insisted on going), they went upstairs laughing and calling to each other, and having a great deal of fun.

But at half-past three that morning another curious thing happened.

Jackie awoke. She never awoke at this time. Half-past six was her time for waking.

Richard’s bed was the other side of the room, by the window. In the blank darkness she listened for his breathing.

She was puzzled because she could not hear it. She looked over in his direction. He was not sleeping at all. There
glowed through the darkness the fiery little point of his cigarette.

She was frozen with surprise — almost terror. She dared not speak or move…. How little she knew of him! Cigarettes in the small hours!

The silence was complete. He gave a little quiet cough, and all was black quiet again…. Strange, that he should never have told her that he did this sort of thing. She felt, for a moment, as though a kind of estrangement had come between them….

What was he thinking about — at this moment? Abysses in his character opened up before her. She would ask him in the morning. It would be rather fun. She turned over and went to sleep.