Part 8

An event of considerable interest overtook me an hour later, when the evening’s work was at an end. As I left the school I met an old acquaintance of the opposite sex, and instantly recognised the grey-eyed girl who was waiting at the pit door of the Lyceum on the memorable occasion when I fainted. She remembered me, too, and was able to tell me the details of the event after I had lost consciousness.

She was a pupil like myself, only she belonged to the girls’ class.

“They ain’t going to allow mixed acting for the first six months,” she said. “Funny, ain’t it? You’d think it was as tricky as mixed bathing. How are you getting on?”

I told her of Mr. Merridew and _Hamlet_; and she told me that there were seven girls in her class, and that none of them could “act for nuts,” to use her own forcible expression.

An oldish woman had come to see the grey-eyed girl home, and when I offered to accompany them to their door, the oldish woman refused in peremptory tones. In fact, you might almost have thought she regarded me as a shady character. It transpired that she was the cook of the grey-eyed girl’s mother, and had been told off to the service of seeing the pupil to and from the classes at the Dramatic School. Before the cook’s rebuff I had, of course, to explain that I was also a pupil at the school, and a person of the most honourable behaviour where the fair sex is concerned; but the cook was not prepared to argue, and hurried away her charge without more words.

I met the grey-eyed girl again, however, the very next evening—at a first-night—and we enjoyed an uninterrupted conversation of three hours before the doors opened. Thus a friendship was established of the most interesting character; for we found that we had much in common, and I was able to tell her several things which she did not know.

She was not a happy girl, for her parents only allowed her to study for the stage under protest, and her family was entirely against her and of a very unsympathetic turn of mind; but she felt that, sooner or later, she would triumph. She indicated by certain allusions to my necktie and hands that I interested her. She considered that I had artist’s hands, which in its turn interested me a great deal, because my aunt had noticed it as well as this penetrating, grey-eyed girl; and in return I ventured to tell her that her eyes were exceedingly remarkable. I hinted that I wrote poetry as well as acted, and, getting rather above myself, as we say, told her that a poem of mine would probably be appearing in a well-known theatrical journal called _Thespis_ at no distant date. I’m afraid in my excitement I even hinted I should be paid for it, which was going too far.

She said:

“Lor! Fancy!” Then, after a pause, she remarked, looking at me sideways under her eyelids, that perhaps I should be making poems to her eyes next, since I seemed to think they were “a bit of all right.” The idea had not occurred to me; but now, of course, my chivalric instincts, hitherto somewhat dormant, came to my aid, and I assured her that the poem was only a question of time. In fact, we may be said rather to have gone it, and when the doors were open and we entered the theatre, I sat beside her.

I may state here that I had no objection to girls as a class, or in a general way—in fact, rather the contrary, if anything. But they were not so interesting to me as men; and I also understood that there is not a rose without a thorn, as the poet says.

There are nocturnal girls in London known, generally speaking, as “light.” They are as common as blackberries in the Sacred Writings, and Shakespeare and the classics generally; and I may say that they have often linked their arms in mine, when I have been returning home after nightfall through some of the main London thoroughfares.

The first time this happened, being new to their unconventional ways, I explained to two girls, who approached me simultaneously, that I didn’t know them. Whereupon, with the swift repartee for which this class is famous, they told me that they were the Duchess of Edinburgh and the Empress of Russia, and that they were stopping with Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace, and had just popped out for a breather before supper. Of course, the right thing to do is to take these dashing meteors in their own spirit; and when they invited me to return with them to the palace, I explained that some other night I should be delighted to do so, but that I was bound for Marlborough House myself on this occasion, and already half an hour late. They appreciated the _bon mot_ and rather took to me. Though doubtless they might have been called bad girls, nobody would have called them bad company. They had an air of abandon and heartiness which put you entirely at your ease with them. In fact, when they asked me to stand them a drink, I very nearly did so; but not quite. Instead, I left them abruptly and vanished into the night, followed by epithets humorous in their way, but not intended for publication.

To return to Brightwin: in due course he took me to see Mr. Bulger, editor of _Thespis_, and I found myself confronted with a type of the poet mind. Mr. Bulger was evidently a dreamer. His great ambition centred upon a State theatre for England, similar to that in foreign countries. He had very exalted opinions and an intense hatred of bad Art. He wanted to gather round him a band of young enthusiasts who would work for love; because, as he explained to me, the pioneer is seldom rewarded, excepting with the laurels of fame.

“Even these,” said Mr. Bulger bitterly, “seldom encircle his own brow. You will generally find them on the bronze or marble forehead of his statue, long after he has vanished into the dust.”

In this high strain he talked, and I saw in a moment that I stood before genius. His soul looked out of his eyes and made them water. His physical frame was of no consequence, and one forgot it when he talked. I trembled to think that this aspiring man was going to read my poem; but he did so, and Brightwin and I sat silent and watched him. Once or twice he nodded in a slightly approving way; and once or twice he shook his head, and I felt the blush of shame upon my cheek.

When he had finished, he said:

“Quite excellent, Mr. Corkey; we must publish this in the paper. There are, however, some failures of technique and a few flashes of unconscious humour that will be better away. May I take it that you will not mind if I edit the poem for publication?”

Little knowing what this exactly meant, I replied that it would be a great privilege to me if he would do so.

“Good,” he said, and put my poem under a paper-weight upon his desk.

We then discussed the drama, and he told us exactly what the young actor should think and feel about his profession. It was clear that I had not thought and felt at all rightly on the subject of the stage, for I had rather intended to shine, and be somebody, and play the tragic lead, and so on. But Mr. Bulger was all for quite a different spirit. He worshipped at the shrine of Art, and explained that in the service of Art we must regard the world and ourselves as well lost.

He advised a spirit of self-sacrifice, and admitted it was not so much the ruling principle in the histrionic mind as it should be. He said some hard things about actor-managers, and declared that in some cases the charwomen who cleaned their theatres were doing more for Art than they were. His eyes blazed against actor-managers in general, and they must tremble when they hear his name.

Presently we rose to take our leave, and then, diving among a mass of tickets and documents, he produced a card of admittance to the Clapham Assembly Room on the occasion of an amateur theatrical entertainment a fortnight hence.

“You can try your hand at that, Mr. Corkey,” he said to me. “You may, in fact, criticise the show for our columns. Keep it short, and don’t indulge in pleasantries at the expense of the company. The Macready Dramatic Club of Clapham is a well-meaning body and their productions are most painstaking. Let me have an account of your expenses, as I shall defray them according to my rule.”

This was, naturally, a very great moment for me. I had but one fleeting twinge that perhaps it was rather rough on the Macready Dramatic Club of Clapham; but I thanked Mr. Bulger heartily for placing such confidence in me, and promised that I would devote the whole of my energies and experience to the performance.

Not until Brightwin and I had left the editorial presence did I begin seriously to doubt; but he assured me that it was quite unnecessary.

“My dear chap,” he said, “you spend all your spare time at the theatre; you are studying for the stage, and you have an immense natural aptitude for the art; therefore, if you are not good enough to review the efforts of a purely amateur crowd of this sort, you ought to be.”

So I imitated Brightwin’s slightly scornful view of the Macreadies of Clapham, and felt that, if I could keep up this haughty spirit through the actual performance, all might possibly be well.

XI

I was now quite one of the busiest men in London. Every moment of my time was occupied, and I felt it a bore to have to go to bed at all and waste precious hours in the arms of Morpheus.

First there was, of course, the office; then my elocution and stage-gesture work for the drama; then running at the L.A.C.; then cricket matches on Saturday afternoons, which were very refreshing to me, especially as I was doing fairly well in them; then literature, in the shape of an order from Mr. Bulger to go and criticise the amateurs of Clapham; and lastly an idea for another poem—but not about the grey-eyed girl. One lived in a regular maelstrom, if the word may be pardoned; and, as though all this were not enough, Mr. Westonshaugh suddenly sent for me and told me that I must appear on the following Monday morning at the West-End Branch of the Apollo!

“I have selected you, Mr. Corkey,” he said, “to help our branch during the usual quarterly rush of work. At these times the branch stands in need of assistance, and the experience will be very desirable. Be at No. 7 Trafalgar Square, sharp at ten o’clock on Monday next, and let me hear my confidence is not displaced.”

On telling Mr. Blades of this event, he said that it was an excellent thing for me, and would introduce me to some of the leaders in the Apollo Fire Office.

“You will be in the hands of Mr. Bright and Mr. Walter,” he said, “and they are two of the most original and delightful men in London. I have the pleasure of knowing them personally, and you can tell them that you are a friend of mine, which will interest them in you.”

I thanked Mr. Blades for this further example of his unwavering kindness to me, and he gave me a brief description of the men who were to command my services in the West End of London.

“Bright is the best all-round man in the A.F.O.,” said Mr. Blades, meaning, of course, the Apollo Fire Office. “He is a good sportsman, and was also a volunteer in his time. He is the champion of the office at billiards, and in his leisure he is a County Councilor and a keen politician. There are great stories told about him in his earlier days in the City. He was a dare-devil man then and took frightful risks. I don’t mean insurance risks,” added Mr. Blades, “but sporting risks, involving danger to life and limb. For a wager he once walked round that narrow ledge that surrounds the top of the gallery outside this department. You know the place. One false step would have dashed him to instant death; but he didn’t care. He didn’t make the false step. It is a record. We haven’t got any chaps like that now.”

I instantly went out to look at the ledge mentioned by Mr. Blades, and the sight of it impressed me enormously. You would have thought a bird would have hesitated to walk along it.

“He must be a great man,” I said, “and have a nerve of iron.”

“He has,” assented Mr. Blades. “And he has a wide grip of politics, too; he is a keen debater and will set some of your ideas right on many subjects. He understands capital and labour and such like; which you do not.”

I admitted this, and then asked about the remarkable points of Mr. Walter.

“Walter is a ray of sunshine,” answered Mr. Blades. “He has a nature none can resist, and is the most popular man in the office. He is a most humorous man and will make you die of laughing. He has two brothers on the professional stage, and he is for all practical purposes a professional actor himself; but he thinks two brothers on the regular stage are enough. He plays parts in public, however, and is a comedian who has nothing left to learn. If he chokes you off this nonsense about the stage, it will be a good thing done.”

I could hardly believe my ears, for Mr. Blades described just such a man as I hungered to know. Whether he would be interested in an utter beginner was, of course, only too doubtful; but, as Mr. Blades said that he was like a ray of sunshine, I hoped with a great hope that he would shine on me a little if he had time.

My impatience for Monday to come was so extreme that during Sunday I took the opportunity to go down to Trafalgar Square and look at the outside of our West-End Branch. Trafalgar Square is naturally too well known to need any lengthened description from me; but I may mention that the National Gallery stands on one side, and our West-End Branch on the other, with Nelson’s Monument between them. Nothing else really matters.

Our premises were stately without ostentation, and richly but not gaudily decorated. The entrance was hidden under a shutter of iron, and the windows were also concealed in the same manner. The building ascended to some rather striking architectural details at the top and was, upon the whole, an imposing pile, though without the gloomy grandeur of the Head Office in Threadneedle Street, E.C.

Punctually to time, I arrived on the following morning, and was greeted with the utmost friendliness. The Manager of this most important Branch was called Mr. Harrison, and I consider that he was the most dignified man I had yet beheld in the flesh. For pure dignity it would have been difficult to find his equal. He said little, but pursued the even tenor of his way and controlled the great business of the Branch with a skill begot of long practice. He was slightly bald, very handsome, and very thoughtful. His thoughts were, of course, hidden from the staff, as a rule, but he was a most popular Chief, and everybody took a pride in doing what he wished with the utmost possible celerity. He did not rule by fear; but by his great dignity and aristocratic manner. He was never flustered, never excited and never annoyed; and this fine manner, of course, left its mark on the whole of the West-End Branch. In fact, I found there was a different atmosphere here, and the staff looked at life from rather a new point of view. I felt my mind broadening from the moment I arrived. The men all had such wide ideas. This, no doubt, was owing to the proximity of Buckingham Palace to some extent; also the Houses of Parliament and the National Gallery. It is true that I was next door to the Bank of England in the City, and that, in its way, enlarges the mind on financial subjects; but to be in a place where Queen Victoria might drive past the window at any moment, and yet leave the staff perfectly cool and collected, was very impressive. In fact, there was an element of awe.

Mr. Bright proved to be my personal Chief, and indicated my work with affability combined with speed. He was a very masculine man, with blue eyes of extraordinary brightness, and a genial manner of tolerant amusement at life in general, that doubtless concealed immense experience of it. He was fair and athletic, and had a most unusual way of coming to the heart of a matter and not wasting words. He feared nothing, and his knowledge of his official duties was, of course, supreme. But he carried it lightly.

I had never seen the great British public coming in to insure its goods and chat-tels before; but they continually poured in at our West-End Branch; and to see Mr. Bright and Mr. Bewes and Mr. Walter stand at the counters of the office and deal with the fearful complexities of the highest insurance problems was a great experience for me.

Mr. Walter was even more wonderful than Mr. Blades said he would be. His knowledge ranged over every branch of Art, and he was just as much at home in a Surrey-side theatre, laughing at a melodrama, as he was in the National Gallery among masterpieces of painting, or at St. James’ Hall listening to the thunderous intricacies of Wagnerian music. He understood nearly as much as Mr. Merridew about the stage, and was himself an accomplished histrion, well known to many professional actors. At Trafalgar Square there are, of course, great natural facilities for approaching the Strand; and Mr. Walter had availed himself of them, with a result that he knew the haunts of the sock and buskin as few knew them.

In person he was of medium stature, with an eye wherein Momus had made his home. He extracted humour from everything, and his facial command was such that while his audience might be convulsed with merriment, not a muscle moved. Occasionally he and Mr. Bright would indulge in a war of wit across the floor of the house, as they say; and on these occasions it was utterly impossible for me to pursue my avocation of registering policies.

Of Mr. Bewes I need only say that he was a silent and an obviously brainy man. He had a short black beard, a penetrating glance from behind his spectacles, and was a Roman Catholic. Of this important but secretive man I can mention one highly interesting fact. He never went out of doors for lunch, but descended to a lower chamber, where one might have a chop or steak, cooked by the Senior Messenger of the West-End Branch. Mr. Bewes always had a chop, except on Friday, when, being a staunch Catholic, he denied himself this trifling pleasure. But the extraordinary thing was that he never varied his lunch, or branched off in the direction of a steak or sausage. Thus he ate five chops every week, year after year, excepting when away for his holidays, when, of course, the staff did not know what he ate. For fifty weeks in the year he persisted in this course, with a result that the simplest statistics will show he ate two hundred and fifty chops per annum. A further calculation was also possible, which produced even more remarkable results, for it transpired that Mr. Bewes had been in the Apollo Fire Office for forty-eight years, and had persisted in his regular habits within the memory of man. Therefore, it followed that during his official career he had devoured no less than twelve thousand chops! One might work this out in sheep, and doubtless find that Mr. Bewes had consumed a very considerable flock in his time. His health was good, and his memory unimpaired; but he was now nearly seventy years of age, and proposed retiring on a pension fairly soon.

It gave one a good idea of the age and solidity of the Apollo, when one heard of a life like this devoted to its service. In fact, in the words of the poet, it can truly be said that “men may come and men may go; but the Apollo goes on forever.”

It would be impossible to describe how Mr. Bright and Mr. Walter enlarged my mind. They did not do it on purpose, or in an improving manner, but they just showed me, in casual conversation, their knowledge of life and its realities and the things that matter and the things that do not. And over it all was cast a mantle of easy tolerance and patience with the fools who came to insure, and the idiots who didn’t understand the very rudiments of the science, and the occasional shady customers, who gave wrong change and pretended they had made a mistake, and so on. It was the hand of steel in the velvet glove with Mr. Bright. I should think he must have been the hardest man to score off in the entire Apollo. His repartee was of the deadliest sort, and, on principle, he never allowed himself to be worsted in argument. You might have described his line of action as a combination of the _suaviter in modo_ with the _fortiter in re_; while Mr. Walter trusted almost entirely to the _suaviter_ style, combined, of course, with a sense of the ludicrous which constantly enabled him to see funny things that nobody else saw. He was a mine of rich and rare quotations from the dramatists, and would apply these with an aptitude little short of miraculous. He would make puns at a moment’s provocation, and his draughtsmanship, in the impressionistic style, was such that he would make a lightning sketch of a man to his very face, while engaged in insuring his household goods. Occasionally Mr. Harrison felt called upon to check the universal hilarity; but he always did it with reluctance, for he also had a keen sense of humour, especially for jokes involving the Irish dialect.

Into this cheerful and exhilarating hive of industry I came, to find everybody most kindly disposed towards me. The work was, of course, hard; but it was lightened by occasional gleams of Mr. Bright or Mr. Walter; while another most excellent and genial man also came and went. He flitted in and out mysteriously, and proved to be called Mr. Macdonald. He was, therefore, of Scottish origin, and his work concerned the mysteries of Life Insurance. The science is even more abstruse than Fire Insurance, and needs what is known as the actuarial instinct. This must be rare, for I heard Mr. Bright declare to Mr. Macdonald that the great actuary is born, not made. Then there were also surveyors—men of special knowledge—who also came and went, and other junior clerks, who were rather more austere to me than the senior ones.

It was here, on the third day of my visit, that Mr. Bright kindly corrected my views with regard to demand and supply and other pressing questions of the day.

In politics I was a Conservative, but only by birth, and only up to the time of going to the West-End Branch of the Apollo. Then, under the greater knowledge and more philosophical intelligence of Mr. Bright, I began to calm down. It happened over a matter of a tailor. My Aunt Augusta, womanlike, attached importance to my clothes, and now directed me to buy a new suit. Mr. Walter was good enough to tell me of his tailor, who was a man of temperate views in the matter of cost, and I went to him. It was not far to go, as his emporium happened to be next door to the Apollo.

Well, this man was distinctly haughty. He was a large, amply-made man with a yellowish beard and full eye; and he looked down the sides of his nose like a camel. I told him that I had come to be measured for a suit of clothes, and he showed no interest whatever, but merely beckoned a lesser man and left me with him. Presently he strolled back, while I was being measured; and when, to show the gulf there must always be fixed, as I thought, between the customer and the tradesman, I hoped his business was prosperous and offered to let him have a pound or two in advance. At this he appeared amused, and asked me if I was one of those American millionaires in disguise. In fact, he was not content with putting himself on my level, but rather clearly indicated that he thought himself above it. This view from a tailor had all the charm of novelty to me; but I felt myself grow rather hot, and in my annoyance I tried a repartee in the style of Mr. Bright.

“Is it true that it takes nine tailors to make a man?” I said.

“It depends,” he answered. “I expect it would take nine men like you to make a tailor.”