B007TB5SP0 EBOK (45 page)

Nighties, as evening fell, would go off into proud Praxiteles-torsos of Nymphs or Muses: pants and ready-mades, at a hint of air, would pirouette and execute a phantom ballet from Don John.

Beyond the clothes-lines was a Pagoda, set up in an extravagant mood, containing a gilded Buddha – a thorn and a symbol of unrighteousness to a convent of Ursulines whose recreation yard was underneath.

Here, at a certain hour when the Mother Superior was wont to walk round and round her preserves, a young, bewhiskered man frequently would come bearing ceremonial offerings of rice or linen newly washed, and falling flat before the shrine would roll himself about and beat the ground as if in mortal anguish of his sins before her fascinated eye. Here, too, from time to time, festivities would take place-sauteries (to a piano-organ), or convivial
petits soupers
after the play.

An iron ladder connected the roof with the work-rooms and living-rooms below.

Ascending this by the light of the stars, Mrs Sixsmith and the
New Juliet
, gay from a certain grill, audaciously advanced,
their playful screams rendered inaudible by the sounds of a tricksome waltz wafted down to them from the piano-organ above.

Items of linen nestling close to a line overhead showed palely against the night like roosting doves.

‘Help … Oh! she’s falling,’ Mrs Sixsmith screamed. ‘Are you there, Mr Nice?’

‘Give me your hand,’ Miss Sinquier begged.

‘Should she rick her spine …’

‘Whew-ps!’ Miss Sinquier exclaimed, scrambling to the top.

London, beyond the frail filigree cross on the Ursulines’ bleached wall, blazed with light. From the Old Boar and Castle over the way came a perfect flood of it. And all along the curved river-line from Westminster to St Paul’s glittered lamps, lamps, lamps.

Folding an arm about her friend’s ‘wasp’ waist, Mrs Sixsmith whirled her deftly round to a wild street air:

‘I like your ways,

I like your style,

You are my darling—’

she hummed as the organ stopped.

‘Come to finish the evening?’

A small, thick-set, grizzled man with dark aesthetic eyes and a pinkish nose, the result maybe of continuously tinting it for music-hall purposes, addressed the breathless ladies in a broad, inquiring voice.

‘Is that
you
, Mr Smee?’ Mrs Sixsmith asked, surprised.

‘Call me “Shawn”. ’

‘We’ve only come on business.’

‘Don’t! You make me laf.’

‘Then – do it,’ Mrs Sixsmith serenely said, resting her left knee against an empty beer keg.

‘They’re not back from the theatre yet.’

‘Turn for us till they come.’

Mr Smee dashed from a crimpled brow a wisp of drooping hair.

‘By your leave, ladies,’ he said, ‘I’ll just slip across to the Old Boar and Castle and sample a snack at the bar.’

‘Don’t run off, Mr Smee. You really mustn’t. On tiles, they say, one usually meets with
cats
.’

‘Oh, my word.’

Mrs Sixsmith placed a hand to her hip in the style of an early John.

‘How long is it – say – since we met?’ she inquired. ‘Not since my wedding, I do believe.’

‘What’s become of those kiddy bridesmaids you had?’ Mr Smee warily asked.

‘Gerty Gale and Joy Patterson? – I’m sure I don’t know.’

‘Oh, my word!’

‘Well, how goes the world with
you
, Mr Smee?’

‘So-so. I’ve been away on tour. Mildred Milson and Co. Oh! my Lord – it was. No sooner did we get to Buxton – down in Derbyshire – than Miss Milson fell sick and had to be left behind.’

‘What was wrong with her?’

‘Exposure … On Bank Holiday some of the company hired a three-horse char-à-banc and drove from Buxton over to Castleton Caves – my hat. What hills! – and from there we went to take a squint at Chatsworth, where Miss Milson came over queer.’

‘And how does Mrs Smee?’

‘So-so.’

‘One never sees her now.’

‘There she sits all day, reading Russian novels. Talk of gloom!’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, it is!’

‘Well … I’m fond of thoughtful, theosophical reading, too, Mr Smee,’ Mrs Sixsmith said. ‘Madame Blavatsky and Mrs Annie Besant are both favourites with me.’

Mr Smee jerked an eloquent thumb.

‘Who have you brought along?’

‘She’s a special pal of mine.’

‘Married?’

‘Mon Dieu,’ Mrs Sixsmith doubtfully said. ‘Je
crois
que c’est une Pucelle.’

‘Never!’ Mr Smee, completely mystified, hazarded.

‘Fie donc. Comme c’est
méchant
.’

‘Wee, wee.’

Mrs Sixsmith tittered.

‘She’s going into management very soon.’

‘Swank?’

‘We seek a Romeo, Mr Smee.’

‘Now, now! …’

‘Don’t look like that, Mr Smee – nobody’s asking you,’ Mrs Sixsmith murmured.

Mr Smee scratched reflectively his head.

‘Who is it you’re after?’ he asked.

‘We fancied Mr Weathercock might suit.’

‘God has given him looks, but no brains,’ Mr Smee emphatically declared. ‘No more brains than a cow in a field.’

‘His is indeed a charming face,’ Mrs Sixsmith sighed. ‘And as to his brains, Mr Smee – why, come!’

‘Who’s to create the countess?’ he asked.

‘Lady Capulet? It’s not determined yet.’

‘Why not canvass the wife?’

‘Has she been in Shakespeare before?’

‘From the time she could toddle; in
A Midsummer-Night’s Dream
, when not quite two, she was the Bug with gilded wings.’

‘Pet!’

‘Sure …’

Mrs Sixsmith clasped prayerfully her hands.

‘And in Mr Smee,’ she said, ‘I see the makings of a fine Friar Lawrence!’

‘How’s that?’

‘With a few choice
concetti
.’

‘Faith!’

‘I see the lonely cell, the chianti-flask, the crucifix …’

‘Gosh!’

‘I see Verona … the torrid sky … the town ascending, up, up, up. I hear the panting nurse. She knocks. Your priest’s eyes glisten. She enters, blouse-a-gape – a thorough coster. You raise
your cowl … Chianti? She shakes her head. Benedictine? No! no! A little Chartreuse, then? Certainly not! Nothing … You squeeze her waist. Her cries “go through” Lady Capulet and her daughter in the distant city on their way to mass. Romeo enters. So!’ Mrs Sixsmith broke off as Mr Weathercock and a curly-headed lad, followed by a swathed woman and a whey-faced child, showed themselves upon the stairs.

Mrs Sixsmith sought Miss Sinquier’s arm.

‘Listen to me, my darling!’ she said.

‘Well?’

‘Write.’

‘What?’

‘Write.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I fear we intrude.’

‘Intrude?’ Harold Weathercock exclaimed, coming up. ‘I assure you it’s a treat …’

Mrs Sixsmith threw a sidelong, intriguing glance across her shoulder.

‘Who’s the cure in plaits?’ she demanded.

‘It’s Little Mary Mant – she’s seeing her sister home.’

‘Oh! … Is that Ita?’ Mrs Sixsmith murmured, stepping forward to embrace Miss ‘Ita Iris’ of the Dream.

Miss Sinquier swooped.

‘I’m having a season,’ she, without further preamble, began. ‘And I want to persuade you to join—’

‘Principal?’

‘Yes.’

‘I should like to play for you,’ Mr Weathercock said.

‘Harold!’

Miss Mant addressed him softly.

‘Well?’

‘Honey husband …’

‘Hook it!’

‘Give me a cigarette.’

‘Mary!’ her sister called.

‘Quick! ’cos of Ita.’

‘Mary Mant.’

Miss Mant tossed disdainfully an ultra-large and pasty-faced head.

‘Why must you insult me, Ita?’ she bitterly asked. ‘You
know
I’m Miss Iris.’

‘I know you’re Miss Mant.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘No, I’m
not
.’

‘I tell you, you are!’

‘Liar!’

‘M-A-N-T!’

‘Oh, stow it,’ Mr Smee said. ‘Put it by.’

‘I’m Réné Iris.’

‘Réné Rats.’

Mrs Sixsmith looked detached.

‘Is that a wash-tub?’ she asked.

‘Certainly.’

‘What’s that odd thing floating, like the ghost of a child unborn?’

‘It belongs to Mrs Mary.’

‘There’s a rumour – she refuses a fortune to show herself in Revue.’

‘With her hearse-horse tread …’

‘Sh— Harold worships her.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘He sees things in her that we don’t, perhaps.’

‘To some ideas,’ Mrs Sixsmith said, ‘I suppose she’s very blooming still …’

‘If it wasn’t for her figure, which is really a disgrace.’

Miss Iris smiled.

She had a tired mouth, contrasting vividly with the artificial freshness of her teeth.

‘When I reach my zenith,’ she declared, ‘it’s Farewell.’

‘Shall you assist at poor Esmé Fisher’s?’

‘A couple of songs – that’s all.’

Mrs Sixsmith looked away.

‘Naturally,’ Miss Sinquier was saying, ‘one can’t expect instantly to be a draw. More than – perhaps – just a little!’

‘With a man who understands in the Box Office …’

‘Some one with a big nose and a strong will, eh?’

Mr Nice lifted a rusty iron and wiped it across his leg.

‘In my opinion,’ he said, ‘to associate oneself with a sanctified classic is a huge mistake. And why start a season on the tragic tack?’

‘Because—’

‘Suppose it’s a frost?’

‘Oh!’

‘Suppose your venture fails. Suppose the thing’s a drizzle.’

‘What then?’

‘There’s a light comedy of mine that should suit you.’

‘Of yours!’

‘Appelled
Sweet Maggie Maguire
.’

‘Tell me why she was sweet, Mr Nice,’ Mrs Sixsmith begged.

‘Why she was sweet? I really don’t know.’

‘Was she sentimental? …’

‘She was an invalid. A bed-ridden beauty … and, of course, the hero’s a Doctor.’

‘Oh! my word!’

‘Is there anyone at home?’ A tired voice came thrilling up from below.

‘Who comes?’

Mrs Sixsmith started.

‘It sounds to me like my husband,’ she said, with an involuntary nervous movement of the hands.

‘I forgot,’ Mr Weathercock said. ‘He mentioned he might blow in.’

‘Oh!’

‘I’d take to my heels!’ Miss Iris advised.

Mrs Sixsmith stood transfixed.

The moonlight fell full on her, making her features look drawn and haggard.

Like wildfire the rumour ran. The King had knighted – he had knighted – by what accident? – Mr Mary, in lieu of Mr Fisher, at Mr Fisher’s own farewell. In the annals of the stage such an occurrence was unheard of, unique.

The excitement in the green-room was intense.

‘M-m! He is not de first to zell ’is birs-r-rite for a mess of porridge!’ Yvonde Yalta, the playgoers’ darling, remarked as she poised with an extravagant play of arms, a black glittering bandeau on her short flaxen hair.

‘A mess of pottage!’ some one near her said.

‘You correct me? Ah, sanx! I am so grateful, so –
so
grateful,’ the charming creature murmured as she sailed away.

From the auditorium came a suppressed titter.

The curtain had risen some few minutes since on Mlle Fanfette and Monsieur Coquelet de Chaussepierre of the Théâtre Sans Rancune in the comedietta,
Sydney, or There’s No Resisting Him
.

‘It’s extraordinary I’ve never seen a man knighted,’ a show-girl twittered, ‘and I’ve seen a good deal …’

‘How do they do them?’

‘Like this,’ a sparkling brunette answered, bestowing a sly pat on the interlocutress with the back of a brush.

‘Of all the common—!’

‘Ladies! Ladies!’

‘Who was in front at the time?’

‘I was!’ Mrs Sixsmith said, who had just peeped in to exchange a few words with her friend.

‘You were?’

‘I was selling sweets in the vestibule and saw it all. Really! If I live to be an old woman I shan’t forget it. Mr Mary –
Sir Maurice
– was in the lobby chatting with Sylvester Fry of the
Dispatch
, when the Royal party arrived. The King instantly noticed him and sent one of his suite, quite unpremeditatedly, it seemed, to summon him, and in a trice … Oh! … and I
never
saw the Queen look so charming. She has a gold dress turning to white through the most exquisite gradations …’

Mrs Sixsmith was overcome.

‘A-wheel,’ Miss Sinquier’s dresser disrespectfully said, ‘how was the poor man to tell? Both the blighters – God forgive me – are equally on their last legs.’

Miss Sinquier shivered.

‘Is it a good house?’ she inquired.

‘Splendid! Outside they’re flying five “full” boards … There’s not a single vacant place. Poor Sydney Iphis gave half a guinea for a seat in the slips.’

‘Are you here all alone?’

‘I’m with Sir Oliver Dawtry,’ Mrs Sixsmith replied, ‘except when I’m running about! … Can I sell anyone anything?’ she inquired, raising sonorously her voice. ‘Vanilla! Caramel! Chocolate! … Comfits!’ she warbled.

‘What have you netted?’

‘Eighteenpence only, so far; – from such an angel!’

‘Comfits, did you say?’ a round-faced, piquant little woman asked.

‘Despite disguise! If it isn’t Arthurine Smee!’

The actress displayed astonishment.

Nature had thrown up upon her lip and cheek two big blonde moles that procured for her physiognomy, somehow or other, an unusual degree of expression.

‘My husband has been waiting to hear from you,’ she said, ‘as agent to this
Miss Sin
—, the new star with the naughty name, and from all I could make out I understand it would be likely to be a
Double Engagement
.’

‘This is Miss Sinquier,’ Mrs Sixsmith exclaimed.

Miss Sinquier blinked.

‘Have you done it much?’ she asked.

‘Often.’

‘Where?’

‘Everywhere.’

‘For example?’

‘I may say I’ve played Pauline and Portia and Puck …’

‘Mother-to-Juliet I fear’s the best I’ve to offer.’

Mrs Smee consulted enigmatically the nearest mole in reach of her tongue.

‘Were I to play her in “good preservation”, ’ she inquired, ‘I suppose there’d be no objection?’