Twopence Coloured (38 page)

It was past eleven when her train came in at Charing Cross. She went on the escalator, and up on to the platform of the District Railway. She ran into the returning theatre crowd.

There was nothing but them. They filled the whole
platform
with the murmur of their talk, and the shuffle of their glittering feet, in the green depressed light of the station. They were at once blasé and yet bedecked for an occasion — a curious contradiction. And they were returning to Sloane Square, or Turnham Green, or Ealing; she knew which was doing which. The elder lot were for Sloane Square, and the ladylike young things, with red cloaks, escorted by gentlemanly young things, with mufflers, were bound for Turnham Green or Ealing. She passed unnoticed amongst them.

And these, she reflected, were her masters. To such as these she had devoted, was now devoting, her life, and
ambition
and energy. Mr. Byndon had done the same. Such was their choice in life.

She was unlucky in her choice of a compartment, in the Ealing train. This was a small one, adjoining a first-class one, and was filled almost exclusively by the escorted young. There was a party of four which had just been (Jackie observed from the programme) to “The Last Thing” — a drama in which she herself, in an extremely damp interview five weeks ago, had sought to play.

And the names of the members of this party were, she discovered, Gladys, George, Diana, and Bobby.

The atmosphere was sprightly. George was the principal sinner. His wit and innuendo were irrepressible. “Oh, shut TUP, George!” cried Gladys. “Will you Shut TUP!”

“Oh, George,
will
you remember wheah you AH!” …

“My dear George, I shall give you a seveah smacking in a moment.”

An attempt to give George a severe smacking was made, and there was laughter.

“Here, give me that programme,” said George, and he snatched at it.

They then discussed “The Last Thing.”

“I know,” said Gladys. “Wasn’t she a shriek!”

This, Jackie gathered, was an allusion to the young actress who had played the part she herself had sought.

*

And now Jackie, though she could not quite analyse the feeling, began to feel a kind of cold anger arising at this spectacle — an anger which increased as it developed before her eyes. It was not that she resented their light-heartedness and disinterest towards the things which had meant so much to her (though that distressed her somewhat): it was that she suddenly seemed to see life as a whole, and herself in relation to it. And she saw herself as a human being
committed
to an occupation which, in one of its manifestations at least, led up to, laboured for the benefit of, and finally resulted in, this suburban quartet.

And at the same time, in a sudden access of vision, the infinite disadvantages, humiliations, follies, idlenesses, lyings, self-seekings and base submissions of that occupation itself, flooded in upon her, with ten years made a moment, and set her thinking as she had not thought before.

Ten years of it….

And then she thought of Mr. Claye, and of to-morrow morning. Mr. Claye, who would never guess, could never conceive, her thoughts to-night. Mr. Claye, with his infinite patience, who so far from imagining that she was using him
for her own ends, considered himself an end in himself, and a highly excellent one at that…. How very much she desired to enlighten Mr. Claye….

And all that suave and untroubled portentousness for which he stood…. All the Mr. Clayes of life….

Mr. Claye’s “technique” … Mr. Claye’s belief in himself as an artist….

Why was it that she, an independent human being, should be expending the prime of her life in playing tear-stricken pupil to Mr. Claye’s expansive schoolmaster? An independent human being….

“What fun it would be,” thought Jackie, as the train swept in at West Kensington Station, “if I gave it up altogether.”

As she walked down Talgarth Road she played with the idea as with a fascinating toy.

No more rehearsals, she thought, no more agents, no more hand-holding, no more submissions, no interviews, no
maulings
, no highmindedness, no first nights. She could elaborate the idea indefinitely.

If it had not been an idle thing to do.

She had to wash a lot of stockings that night, and by the time she had had her bath, and got into bed, it was well past midnight.

It began, as she lay on her back, and just before she was going to turn over to go to sleep.

Now if she were placed differently, she thought, she might have had a pleasant flirtation with that idea….

If she had been a success, for example — if she had
justified
herself, if she had demonstrated that she at least could mount to the eminences which she now secretly disparaged — then she might turn from them with immunity from the accusations of failure.

But until then — until then…. “Oh, yes, she was on the stage for a long while, but never did any good at it….”

Iris Langham….

Did human beings, at a certain age, and after a certain amount of affliction, find themselves losing their early pride? She hoped this was not happening to her.

She turned over to go to sleep.

Of course — if she did particularly well in her contract with Cannon….

A contract with Cannon would be enough — a stamp of success in itself….

Of course, thought Jackie, there were two ways of never returning to the stage, weren’t there? One would be to make known your intention, with some solemnity, never to return to the stage. And the other would be never, from this very instant, to return to the stage….

In that case you would not have to face Mr. Claye in the morning…. Surely no one had ever left the stage like that…. Surely no living creature, overnight, and in a sudden access of enlightenment, had ever decided to leave the stage, and done so at once…. Decided it in the dark at night….

Wouldn’t it be fun, though, to lie here, sleeping on in the morning, while at ten-thirty (Sharp) that rehearsal was
commencing
… commencing up there … lying here sleeping on … commencing up there … Mr. Claye walking about … Mr. Claye growing suaver and suaver … sleeping on … Mr. Claye mutely deciding to dismiss her … sleeping on … Mr. Claye himself dismissed….

Mr. Claye had said “Sharp.” Suppose she, with one magic gesture, relieved herself, slipped out from the chains of that bland ascendancy. Suppose Mr. Claye had made
miscalculations
as to the persons he could say “Sharp” to….

This was unprofitable. She must sleep now, or it would be all the worse for her in the morning. She turned over.

But Mr. Claye’s Face … when he learnt that the bird had flown … learnt that he was not indispensable to life … learnt that he was on the same footing as his pupil …

This was pure naughtiness. She must go to sleep.

And then, all at once, in the darkness of the second hour in the morning, Jackie stiffened herself in her bed, and
listened to a voice from within her. And this voice urged her to be just as naughty as she liked….

And five minutes after that Jackie sat straight up in bed, and stared, with glowing eyes, into the darkness.

“I’m
not
going back!” she said. I’m
never
going back!”

She threw back the bed-clothes, and fumbled weakly and tremblingly into her slippers.

“Oh, God!” she said. “I’m never going back!”

She ran over to the window, not knowing what to do with herself, and drew back the curtains, and looked down at the quiet street.

She was a convert. She was free. She understood what it was to be a convert.

Free! She turned from the window, she clasped her hands, and the word surged through her like a rejoicing melody. Free! Not so much from all she had suffered as from her own aspiration! She surrendered and she was free. But from all she had suffered, as well. It seemed as though the weight of ten years had been lifted in a moment. It was too simple. Why had she not thought of it before?

To-morrow morning —
now
— she was a free woman! She could pass a stage-door, she could meet an actor, she could hear of a likely new show, and it would mean nothing to her! She could look the whole world in the face! She could take a walk to-morrow morning, and read a book in Kensington Gardens! She
would
take a walk to-morrow morning and read a book in Kensington Gardens! She was childish, she was impish, she was disembodied with joy. She was without care. She had lost desire. She had all her desire. She was a failure. She had the courage to be a failure — the originality to be a failure.

She walked up and down the room, she returned to the window, she swung round and clasped her hands.

A complete failure, thought Jackie (as she lay snuggled up again), and now she could hug the thought to her bosom like a child. There were no half measures about it — her
humiliation
was perfect, and she gloried in her humiliation. A
stage-struck
little fool who never, at one point, had brought it off. She could go back with nothing to her credit. She had no theatrical technique, no theatrical gossip, no ideas (save a few very decided ones) on the theatre, and no earthly interest in the theatre. She knew no one of repute intimately, she had no Christian names at her disposal, she had never had a job worth calling a job, and the whole West End acting world, with its social intrigue and garrulity, remained a closed door to her — a thing beyond her. They had defeated her. A silly little stage-struck idiot who had made an attack upon London and failed on every side. And now (final and most delicious disgrace!) she was going to try and settle down! …

There were one or two things to be done, of course. There would have to be a wire to Mr. Claye in the morning, and a letter to Mr. Drew…. How very sweet it was to be letting some one down for a change! She had wanted all her life to let some one down.

And to-morrow afternoon she was seeing Charles…. It was very lucky that Charles should have chosen to-morrow to come up…. And Charles would hear all about it….  Charles….

It was all rather dreadful about Charles….

She thought for a long while about him, and then she decided it would be better not to think about him any more….

And then, before she knew she was doing any such thing, this slightly unscrupulous (but still very harmless) girl, went to sleep.

T
HE time was twenty to eleven and the full company of “The Underdog” was on the stage of the Cumberland Theatre. Faint traces of a slightly unnatural elevation were discernible in the general countenance of the company (as it stood, conferring softly, in groups), and a casual observer might have had difficulty in detecting the cause of this
elevation
. One in possession of the facts, however, would have put it down to the undoubtedly bracing influences of Trouble Ahead.

The rehearsal should have commenced ten minutes ago.

Mr. Claye, in the infinitude of his patience, stood apart with his stage-manager. His hands were in his pockets, and he was gazing, very benignly, at the floor. The stage-manager murmured something to Mr. Claye.

“Oh,” said Mr. Claye, so that all the company could, and did, hear what Mr. Claye was saying. “Doubtless buying a new hat.”

It must be understood that Mr. Claye said this with the utmost detachment, affability, and tolerance. Anything more natural or proper than his leading juvenile (during these rather curious moments) buying a new hat, could not be conceived. Mr. Claye had probably observed, only yesterday, that she wanted one…. Very good. Let her get on with it.

He
could wait.

The minutes passed.

A vague vision of hat after hat, fastidiously rejected and strewing the drawers, floor, and shelves of a neighbouring milliner’s, filled the mind of the company present….

The stage-manager again murmured something to Mr. Claye.

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Claye. “Patience does it. Patience does it.”

Mr. Claye then made an indistinct speech to his
stage-manager
, preluded by the words “Of Course,” and including the words “last straw” and “finished.” But Mr. Claye’s
patience
did not desert him. Mr. Claye had perfect mastery of the situation. He was (to be quite truthful) enjoying himself immensely.

At this moment the stage-door keeper appeared and handed a telegram to Mr. Claye.

Mr. Claye, humming lightly, opened this telegram.

“I
am
tired
of
all
this
acting,”
read this telegram,
“so
will
not
come
up
to-day.”
It was from Jackie.

*

Mr. Claye gazed at this telegram for some time. His hand trembled slightly. “Ah,” said Mr. Claye. He was fighting for time….

“Er — here —
you
,
” said Mr. Claye, recalling the
vanishing
stage-doorkeeper. “Has this — er — Come — er ——?” He got no further.

Now although Mr. Claye deserves commiseration in his fight for time at this crisis, the silly man should have kept silent, and not asked whether this telegram had Come. For anybody could see that the thing had Come (how could it have been given him otherwise?) and the rather baffled
doorkeeper
told him as much.

“Yessir,” said the doorkeeper, gazing at him queerly. “Juscumsir.”

“Oh,” returned Mr. Claye, heavily, and as though worlds of things had hung upon the man’s reply. “Oh.”

He folded it up. “Well, we ’d better commence upon the second act,” he said.

The stage-manager bustled about, and the actors and actresses got themselves ready.

“This chair’s still to be right down-stage, then, Mr. Claye?” asked the stage-manager.

Mr. Claye leapt from dreams.

“What? Oh. Ye-e-e-es,” drawled Mr. Claye. “Ye-e-e-es. Right down-stage. That’s right.”

The rehearsal commenced.