Twopence Coloured (26 page)
Authors: Patrick Hamilton
There were the most exuberant notices in the local Press, and an excellent notice in the “Era.” A firm belief that they would Just Get Out all right, uplifted the management — which suffered from that revealing yearning to get Out of every town it has purposely entered common to touring managements. They dropped, however, seventy pounds.
There was, indeed, a marked apathy in this seaside town towards “The Knocking at the Gate”— an apathy which was not to be shaken by an infinite number of throw-outs, in the shape of a door-knocker, left about in shops and bars and lounges all over the town — nor yet by a large
advertisement
in the local paper, surrounded by Bicycle
advertisements
, and reading.
HAVE
YOU
HEARD THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE?
and portraying a tense but rather badly printed pair of lovers in the act of catching the terrible sound.
Nor was there any spiritual invigoration for the
management
forthcoming from the innumerable letters received from critics and individuals in the locality.
There was, for instance, this type of letter: —
D
EAR
S
IR
,—
As a critic, hardened playgoer, and writer for the theatre of some fifteen years’ standing, I should like to send a little word of appreciation and thankfulness for the very delightful and
enthralling
two hours I spent on Tuesday evening. The play, in its line, could hardly be bettered, and I am one who rarely gives praise of that high order. I have seen nothing so good for many moons. Of the author, “Richard Gissing” (am I right in
suspecting
that this is the “nom de plume” of a woman?), I expect to hear a great deal more. She has a true sense of the theatre. There were, however, one or two minor points which struck me and which I think you would be well advised to alter. In Scene II, Act II —the window scene — the most is not got out of this situation. The girl, instead of announcing herself suddenly, should be heard crying excitedly off-stage, and not appear until the father has heard the cry and gone to the window. The old man could thus have some “business”— a startled look, say, or sudden ejaculation, which would increase the effect of “nerves”
at which you were aiming. Otherwise the play falls off —“drags” hopelessly at this point. Then again, in the fight for the revolver, this is very badly handled. They should not pounce together like that, but fall wrestling upon the ground, at about a yard’s distance from it, and strain slowly, surely towards it — the victor
disentangling
himself and springing up with a cry of triumph. It also might be a good “trick,” at the end, if the revolver was
not
loaded after all. This would increase the foolishness of the villain’s position, and add an amusing “twist.” It would, in fact, make a very good “curtain,” though for this you would have to cut out the last five minutes of the scene. I do not think you should have any difficulty in doing this, though, as the last part is quite needless, and, as it stands, falls very flat. I recommend this strongly.
The last act, of course, is poor. This is in some measure
unavoidable
after the climax in the second, but it could be vastly improved by clever production, and by taking it at least twice as fast. As it is it hangs fire altogether, and the actors seem to have lost interest in their parts and gone to sleep. This is the fault of the first act, too — where a little “pep” (if I may be allowed the Americanism) would make all the difference.
As for the cast — Gerald Plaice is a fine actor, and does his best, but there has been a bad bit of “casting” here. He should change places with Mr. Grayson. Miss Starkey is an “old
favourite
,” of course, but is, I fear, “beyond it” now. The pretty Miss Mortimer, who gives a charming, if inexperienced performance, should be taught what to do with her hands. Miss Potts is much too heavy, and Mr. Manlove rants too much. He lacks restraint.
I have already written more than I intended, so I will not expand upon how you might, with advantage, dispense with the part of the butler altogether, letting the maid, with a few
alterations
, have his lines — or how you should try to get more mystery into the actual “knocking,” muffing it, perhaps, or hitting a more dead surface — or how you might get a rain-machine (there are excellent ones to be had these days) for the storm scene, and so add to the grim effect. I will simply thank you again for an evening of unalloyed enjoyment. Please convey my
congratulations
to “Richard Gissing.”
Yours sincerely,
J
AMESON
B
LAYE
.
And there was this type of letter:
D
EAR
S
IR
,—
In “The Knocking at the Gate,” which I witnessed last night, there is a strange oversight which I think you must have
overlooked
. In act two the clock on the mantelpiece stands at
half-
past
eight. The curtain is then lowered to denote the passing of three hours. To my surprise I noticed that the clock’s hands remained precisely where they were! Time seems to move slowly in theatreland!
Pardon my impertinence in thus pointing out a little error which may be easily remedied.
Yours faithfully,
R
ONALD
B
ULL
.
And there was, also this type of letter:
D
EAR
S
IRS
,—
Kindely send me a cop. of yr. play quickly as will be in Wales soon & unable to look at it. i should think it would be a success, what with these modern plays about Jaz. i dont know what the worlds coming to. please send me that cop. I hope you will have a good time, i Enclose two stamps and will not
Yrs
H
ENRY
S
TACKS
.
T
HE first night in London of “The Knocking at the Gate” took place on the 25th evening of a January. This evening did not differ from any other evening as far as the general London public was concerned — the
thunderous
pageant of returning workers, and the softer excited
inrush
of adorned pleasure-seekers, enacting themselves in the same manner as usual — but it was, to Richard and Jackie, like the last evening of the world.
The last red glow of the sun, shining through the windows of their rooms upon Richard, as he fixed the stud of his
blazing
evening shirt, and tied and untied his tie, was the kind of sun that shines upon a condemned man. And the taxi they took together, some time later, was a Black Maria of a taxi, if the intensity of fear and the solemnity of ordeal in progress between its closed doors (as it moved through the blocked streets of London to Dean Street) could but have been communicated to the people outside.
They dined at a restaurant almost opposite the theatre, amid the everyday (and yet somehow swimming and
unnatural
) attentions of the waiters, and various cloaked and chattering suburban ladies who were going, that evening, to the same theatre as themselves. Then he took her to the stage door — an unpleasant walk — and left her.
After that it was all a whirring nightmare in the stewing electric light of those underground, dungeon-like cellars so discrepantly coloured, cushioned and carpeted.
She split open her telegrams in a maze of giddiness, she cried “Come in” to the knocks upon the door, and she exchanged greetings with her limply smiling
fellow-professionals
.
Such greetings are given you just before you take the anæsthetic….
And in the dressing-rooms, all along the passage, the same thing was happening…. A knock — a cheery “Can I come in?”— a cry of recognition — and the sound of
mumbling
and insecure laughter….
And the “Half-hour” was called, and then the “Quarter.” And dimly, and from afar, upstairs, came the troubling sound of ripple and restlessness from an incoming audience. This sound was to be divined rather than heard, and you did not dare reflect upon what was taking place up there…. Actually a line of glistening motors was filling the cold street for three hundred yards — doors were slamming briskly, people were entering brightly, and shaking hands, and
everything
was as cheerful and above-board and social as it was, down here, sinister, palpitating and secretive. The wings of horror beat the air down here, but only by the acceptance of that horror was the pleasure and piquancy of the evening upstairs to be maintained. Such is the marvellous power of mankind for deliberately creating and inflicting thrills and agonies upon itself.
And then a vague, distant atmosphere of bells, and the cry of “Overture, please!” all along the passage, and then the overture itself. Jackie did not appear until twenty minutes after the commencement, and she was ready too early, and sat mistily looking at herself in the glass. An uncanny, trembling, and beautiful Jackie — with every beauty of hand, and nail, and nose, and eye, and lip over-emphasized and made monstrous by paint — scarcely Jackie at all, and yet Jackie multiplied by herself — a mad magnification of her loveliness. Her eye-lids as blue as the Mediterranean, her lips as red as a soldier of the Queen, her arms like a miller’s, and her eye-lashes burdened with little globes of black….
And then the high, hysterically supercilious voice of Mr. Plaice (who opened the play) as he walked down the passage to his fate…. And suddenly the end of the overture…. And a sudden slow rumble (the curtain)…. And a
breathless
pause…. And then the sound of stamping, and the sound of voices, and the old familiar lines, muffled by distance….
And now a great silence in all the dressing-rooms — a voice and step at the end of the passage, a cough, or a giggle, drawing anguished attention to itself. It was as though some of the operations had already begun, and, if you
listened
, you could hear the first opiate stirrings and
unconscious
sighs of the victims. There would be a scream in a moment (you felt), and then quiet again…. And up above, the muffled thudding and voices, continually….
A bell buzzed. Steps clanged down the passage. A double knock on the door.
“MISS MORTIMER, PLEASE!”
She was the first to be called. “Coming,” she said. She flew to the mirror, powdered herself again, swung herself round, and rushed out. She passed under the stage, where the boards were positively cracking under Mr. Plaice’s boots, and where you could almost hear the actors breathing (they were doing it very hard), and she came up on the o.p. side. Here she met Richard, who said “Hullo,” and courteously took her hand. This author had been shaking over a hundred hands since he had seen her last, and he was not in a condition to differentiate. Nor was she.
Three minutes later she found herself on the stage.
She was facing Mr. Plaice (who was sweating) and
speaking
her first lines intelligently to him, and he was speaking intelligently to her. But although he was speaking the lines of the play, and although his facial expressions were apparently appropriate to his speech, his more subtle
expression
was conveying something quite different to her, and she was conscious of this alone. He was sympathizing with her.
“Here we are, you see,” he seemed to be saying, “playing
on a first night. They’re out there, and we’re here. And I’m smeared with grease-paint and ever so queer-looking to you, and you look the same to me. And we’re both in a sea of horrible, blinding, amber light, and how it all came about it’s impossible to say…. But we’ve got to keep it going — you and I. Of course, I’ve been on longer than you (that’s why I’m sweating so) and I’m getting
hardened
…. I know all about that foul coughing female in the third row…. And I know all about this family in this box here…. Oh, and I know all about that chair…. It’s been miles too far up-stage ever since I came on. I’ve been trying to shove it down all the time…. And notice the whisky. Burnt sugar and water. Much too pale. And they gave us water at the dress-rehearsal, didn’t they? You’ll get used to it in time….”
Such thoughts, which were all her own thoughts, did Jackie read into Mr. Plaice’s look.
She felt a great oppressed kinship with Mr. Plaice. After a time she began to settle down, even going so far, at moments, as to become conscious of what she was saying. And when the time came to go she had a certain regret at leaving.
At the interval there was a bustling and brighter, if still nervous, air over the dressing-rooms — as though one or two of the operations were over, and favourable results had been reported.
It was not until the last five minutes of the play that a new sensation overtook Jackie. She had the stage to herself and a scene where she was left alone in the dark. And all at once she awoke to the fact that this was truly an occasion, that all eyes were concentrated upon her, and that she was able to cope with it. She was a young actress able to cope with a London audience on a first night. She glimpsed the eagerness of chins lying on glowing arms in the gallery, and she sensed the dark and serious watchfulness of the
whole house, and she was filled with a true exultation in her achievement, and played with all the knowledge and skill and depth that she had at her command….
And when, two minutes later, the curtain fell, and she took her call with Mr. Plaice, she heard what she had done….
*
Jackie never forgot that applause. It snarled up like thunder at her — it took her breath away — it seemed as though it would never cease…. It was like a mad wave carrying her forward, rolling and surrounding and
submerging
her in unreasoning bliss…. And it was the
applause
of London! It was an embrace from infinite sources of metropolitan good nature — undreamed of, absurd, abandoned…. She could only bow, and smile up weakly, and listen….
And there was then a great deal of applause for everybody else. And then again, “Miss Mortimer and Mr. Plaice!” cried the stage-manager, and she walked on with the curtain down. “Mr. Plaice!” cried the stage-manager. “
Mr.
Plaice!
” But Mr. Plaice was not in evidence.
“All right, Miss Mortimer!” shouted the stage-manager, and Jackie had a call to herself.
And again it smashed up at her — as it always will smash up at a single figure — and she heard the sound of cheering — and she saw the audience in that curious, glowing,
hat-holding
, disintegrated state which invariably overtakes it just at the end — and she bowed and smiled, and looked upwards timidly, and bowed and smiled again….
And then she was with the others in a row, like a lot of good little girls and boys, and Richard was making a speech….