Part 10

‘The devil you have. Why didn’t you say so before? Always pleased to see gentlemen of the Press. Have a weed?’ A large cigar-case appeared from the recesses of the episcopal bosom. ‘I’m Bishop Philpotts, you know,’ he said, slipping a voluminously clothed arm through Adam’s. ‘I dare say you’d like to come round to the front and see the fun. I should think they’d be just singing their last hymn now. It’s been uphill work,’ he confided as they walked round the side of the house, ‘and there’s been some damned bad management. Why, yesterday, they kept Miss La Touche waiting the whole afternoon, and then the light was so bad when they did shoot her that they made a complete mess of her—we had the machine out and ran over all the bits carefully last night after dinner—you never saw such rotten little scraps—quite unrecognizable half of them. We didn’t dare show them to her husband—he’d be sick to death about it—so we just cut out a few shots to keep and threw away the rest. I say, you’re not feeling queer, are you? You look all green suddenly. Find the weed a bit strong?’

‘Was—was she a Wesleyan too?’

‘My dear boy, she’s playing lead . . . she’s Selina. Countess of Huntingdon. . . . There, now you can see them at work.’

They had rounded the wing and were now in full view of the front of the house, where all was activity and animation. A dozen or so men and women in eighteenth-century costume were standing in a circle singing strongly, while in their centre stood a small man in a long clerical coat and a full white wig, conducting them. A string band was playing not far off and round the singers clustered numerous men in shirt sleeves bearing megaphones, cinematograph cameras, microphones, sheaves of paper and arc lamps. Not far away, waiting their turn to be useful, stood a coach and four, a detachment of soldiers and some scene shifters with the transept of Exeter Cathedral in sections of canvas and matchboarding.

‘The Colonel’s somewhere in that little crowd singing the hymn,’ said the Bishop. ‘He was crazy to be allowed to come on as a super, and as he’s letting us the house dirt cheap Isaacs said he might. I don’t believe he’s ever been so happy in his life.’

As they approached the hymn stopped.

‘All right,’ said one of the men with megaphones. ‘You can beat it. We’ll shoot the duel now. I shall want two supers to carry the body. The rest of you are through for the afternoon.’

A man in a leather apron, worsted stockings and flaxen wig emerged from the retreating worshippers.

‘Oh, please, Mr Isaacs,’ he said, ‘please may _I_ carry the body?’

‘All right, Colonel, if you want to. Run in and tell them in the wardrobe to give you a smock and a pitchfork.’

‘Thank you so much,’ said Colonel Blount, trotting off towards his house. Then he stopped. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘I suppose it wouldn’t be better for me to carry a sword?’

‘No, pitchfork, and hurry up about it or I shan’t let you carry the body at all; some one go and find Miss La Touche.’

The young lady whom Adam had seen in the motor car came down the steps of the house in a feathered hat, riding habit and braided cape. She carried a hunting crop in her hand. Her face was painted very yellow.

‘Do I or do I not have a horse in this scene, Mr Isaacs? I’ve been round to Bertie and he says all the horses are needed for the coach.’

‘I’m sorry, Effie, you do _not_ and it’s no good taking on. We only got four horses and you know that, and you saw what it was like when we tried to move the coach with two. So you’ve just got to face it. You comes across the fields on foot.’

‘Dirty Yid,’ said Effie La Touche.

‘The trouble about this film,’ said the Bishop, ‘is that we haven’t enough capital. It’s heart-breaking. Here we have a first-rate company, first-rate producer, first-rate scene, first-rate story and the whole thing being hung up for want of a few hundred pounds. How can he expect to get the best out of Miss La Touche if they won’t give her a horse? No girl will stand for that sort of treatment. If I were Isaacs I’d scrap the whole coach sooner. It’s no sense getting a star and not treating her right. Isaacs is putting every one’s back up the way he goes on. Wanted to do the whole of my cathedral scene with twenty-five supers. But you’re here to give us a write up, aren’t you? I’ll call Isaacs across and let him give you the dope. . . . _Isaacs!_’

‘Yuh?’

‘_Daily Excess_ here.’

‘Where?’

‘Here.’

‘I’ll be right over.’ He put on his coat, buttoned it tightly at the waist and strode across the lawn, extending a hand of welcome. Adam shook it and felt what seemed to be a handful of rings under his fingers. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mister. Now just you ask me anything you want about this film because I’m just here to answer. Have you got my name? Have a card. That’s the name of the company in the corner. Not the one that’s scratched out. The one written above. _The Wonderfilm Company of Great Britain_. Now this film,’ he said, in what seemed a well-practised little speech, ‘of which you have just witnessed a mere fragment marks a stepping stone in the development of the British Film Industry. It is the most important All-Talkie super-religious film to be produced solely in this country by British artists and management and by British capital. It has been directed throughout regardless of difficulty and expense, and supervised by a staff of expert historians and theologians. Nothing has been omitted that would contribute to the meticulous accuracy of every detail. The life of that great social and religious reformer John Wesley is for the first time portrayed to a British public in all its humanity and tragedy. . . . Look here, I’ve got all this written out. I’ll have them give you a copy before you go. Come and see the duel. . . .

‘That’s Wesley and Whitefield just going to start. Of course, it’s not them really. Two fencing instructors we got over from the gym. at Aylesbury. That’s what I mean when I say we spare no expense to get the details accurate. Ten bob each we’re paying them for the afternoon.’

‘But did Wesley and Whitefield fight a duel?’

‘Well, it’s not actually recorded, but it’s known that they quarrelled and there was only one way of settling quarrels in those days. They’re both in love with Selina, Countess of Huntingdon, you see. She comes to stop them, but arrives too late. Whitefield has escaped in the coach and Wesley is lying wounded. That’s a scene that’ll go over big. Then she takes him back to her home and nurses him back to health. I tell you, this is going to make film history. D’you know what the Wesleyan population of the British Isles is? Well nor do I, but I’ve been told and _you’ld be surprised_. Well every one of those is going to come and see this film and there’s going to be discussions about it in all the chapels. We’re recording extracts from Wesley’s sermons and we’re singing all his own hymns. I’m glad your paper’s interested. You can tell them from me that we’re on a big thing. . . . There’s one thing though,’ said Mr Isaacs, suddenly becoming confidential, ‘which I shouldn’t tell many people. But I think you’ll understand because you’ve seen some of our work here and the sort of scale it’s on, and you can imagine that expenses are pretty heavy. Why, I’m paying Miss La Touche alone over ten pounds a week. And the truth is—I don’t mind telling you—we’re beginning to feel the wind a bit. It’s going to be a big success _when_ and _if_ it’s finished. Now, suppose there was some one—yourself, for instance, or one of your friends—who had a little bit of loose capital he wanted to invest—a thousand pounds, say—well, I wouldn’t mind selling him a half-share. It’s not a gamble, mind—it’s a certain winner. If I cared to go into the open market with it, it would be snapped up before you could say knife. But I don’t want to do that and I’ll tell you why. This is a British company and I don’t want to let any of those foreign speculators in on it, and once you let the shares get into the open market you can’t tell who’s buying them, see. Now why leave money idle bringing in four and a half or five per cent. when you might be doubling it in six months?’

‘I’m afraid it’s no use coming to me for capital,’ said Adam. ‘Do you think I could possibly see Colonel Blount?’

‘One of the things I hate in life,’ said Mr Isaacs, ‘is seeing any one lose an opportunity. Now listen, I’ll make you a fair offer. I can see you’re interested in this film. Now I’ll sell you the whole thing—film we’ve made up to date, artists’ contracts, copyright of scenario, everything for five hundred quid. Then all you have to do is to finish it off and your fortune’s made and I shall be cursing for not having held on longer. How about it?’

‘It’s very good of you, but really I don’t think I can afford it at the moment.’

‘Just as you like,’ said Mr Isaacs airily. ‘There’s many who _can_ who’d jump at the offer, only I thought I’d let you in on it first because I could see you were a smart kid. . . . Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you have it for four hundred. Can’t say fairer than that, can I? And wouldn’t do it for any one but you.’

‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Isaacs, but I didn’t come to buy your film. I came to see Colonel Blount.’

‘Well, I shouldn’t have thought you were the sort of chap to let an opportunity like that slip through your fingers. Now I’ll give you one more chance and after that mind, the offer is closed. I’ll sell you it for three-fifty. Take it or leave it. That’s my last word. Of course, you’re not in any way obliged to buy,’ said Mr Isaacs rather haughtily, ‘but I assure you that you’ll regret it from the bottom of your heart if you don’t.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Adam, ‘I think it’s a wonderfully generous offer, but the truth is I simply don’t want to buy a film at all.’

‘In that case,’ said Mr Isaacs, ‘I shall return to my business.’

Not till sunset did the Wonderfilm Company of Great Britain rest. Adam watched them from the lawn. He saw the two fencing instructors in long black coats and white neck bands lunging and parrying manfully until one of them fell; then the cameras stopped and his place was taken by the leading actor (who had been obliged through the exigencies of the wardrobe to lend his own coat). Whitefield took the place (and the wig) of the victor and fled to the coach. Effie La Touche appeared from the shrubbery still defiantly carrying her hunting crop. Close-ups followed of Effie and Wesley and Effie and Wesley together. Then Colonel Blount and another super appeared as yokels and carried the wounded preacher back to the house. All this took a long time as the action was frequently held up by minor mishaps and once when the whole scene had been triumphantly enacted the chief cameraman found that he had forgotten to put in a new roll of film (‘Can’t think how I come to make a mistake like that, Mr Isaacs’). Finally the horses were taken out of the coach and mounted by grenadiers and a few shots taken of them plunging despairingly up the main drive.

‘Part of Butcher Cumberland’s army,’ explained Mr Isaacs. ‘It’s always good to work in a little atmosphere like that. Gives more educational value. Besides we hire the horses by the day so we might as well get all we can out of them while they’re here. If we don’t use ’em in Wesley we can fit ’em in somewhere else. A hundred foot or so of galloping horses is always useful.’

When everything was over Adam managed to see Colonel Blount, but it was not a satisfactory interview.

‘I’m afraid I’ve really got very little time to spare,’ he said. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m at work on a scenario of my own. They tell me you come from the _Excess_ and want to write about the film. It’s a glorious film, isn’t it? Of course, you know, I have very little to do with it really. I have let them the house and have acted one or two small parts in the crowd. I don’t have to pay for them though.’

‘No, I should think not.’

‘My dear boy, all the others have to. I knocked a little off the rent of the house, but I don’t actually _pay_. In fact, you might almost say I was a professional already. You see, Mr Isaacs is the principal of the National Academy of Cinematographic Art. He’s got a little office in Edgware Road, just one room, you know, to interview candidates in. Well, if he thinks that they’re promising enough—he doesn’t take any one, mind, only a chosen few—he takes them on as pupils. As Mr Isaacs says, the best kind of training is practical work, so he produces a film straight away and pays the professionals out of the pupils’ fees. It’s really a very simple and sensible plan. All the characters in “John Wesley” are pupils, except Wesley himself and Whitefield and the Bishop and, of course, Miss La Touche—she’s the wife of the man who looks after the Edgware Road office when Mr Isaacs is away. Even the cameramen are only learning. It makes everything so exciting, you know. This is the third film Mr Isaacs has produced. The first went wrong, through Mr Isaacs trusting one of the pupils to develop it. Of course, he made him pay damages—that’s in the contract they all have to sign—but the film was ruined, and Mr Isaacs said it was disheartening—he nearly gave up the cinema altogether. But then a lot more pupils came along, so they produced another, which was _very_ good indeed. Quite a revolution in Film Art, Mr Isaacs said, but that was boycotted through professional jealousy. None of the theatres would show it. But that’s been made all right now. Mr Isaacs has got in with the ring, he says, and this is going to establish Wonderfilms as the leading company in the country. What’s more, he’s offered me a half share in it for five thousand pounds. It’s wonderfully generous, when he might keep it all to himself, but he says that he must have some one who understands _acting_ from the practical side of the board of directors. Funnily enough, my bank manager is very much against my going in for it. In fact, he’s putting every obstacle in my way. . . . But I dare say Mr Isaacs would sooner you didn’t put any of this into your paper.’

‘What I really came about was your daughter, Nina.’

‘Oh, she’s not taking any part in the film at all. To tell you the truth, I very much doubt whether she has any real talent. It’s funny how these things often skip a generation. My father, now, was a very bad actor indeed—though he always used to take a leading part when we had theatricals at Christmas. Upon my soul, he used to make himself look quite ridiculous sometimes. I remember once he did a skit of Henry Irving in _The Bells_. . . .’

‘I’m afraid you’ve forgotten me, sir, but I came here last month to see you about Nina. Well, she wanted me to tell you that I’m Mr Chatterbox now. . . .’

‘Chatterbox . . . no, my boy, I’m afraid I don’t remember you. My memory’s not what it was. . . . There’s a Canon Chatterbox at Worcester I used to know . . . he was up at New College with me . . . unusual name.’

‘Mr Chatterbox on the _Daily Excess_.’

‘No, no, my dear boy, I assure you not. He was ordained just after I went down and was chaplain somewhere abroad—Bermuda, I think. Then he came home and went to Worcester. He was never on the _Daily Excess_ in his life.’

‘No, no, sir, _I’m_ on the _Daily Excess_.’

‘Well, you ought to know your own staff, certainly. He _may_ have left Worcester and taken to journalism. A great many parsons do nowadays. I know. But I must say that he’s the last fellow I should have expected it of. Awful stupid fellow. Besides, he must be at least seventy. . . . Well, well . . . who would have thought it. Good-bye, my boy, I’ve enjoyed our talk.’

‘Oh, sir,’ cried Adam, as Colonel Blount began to walk away. ‘You don’t understand—I want to marry Nina.’

‘Well, it’s no good coming here,’ said the Colonel crossly. ‘I told you, she’s somewhere in London. She’s got nothing to do with the film at all. You’ll have to go and ask her about it. Anyway, I happen to know she’s engaged already. There was a young ass of a chap down here about it the other day . . . the Rector said he was off his head. Laughed the whole time—bad sign that—still, Nina wants to marry him for some reason. So I’m afraid you’re too late, my boy. I’m sorry . . . and, anyway, the Rector’s behaved very badly about this film. Wouldn’t lend his car. I suppose it’s because of the Wesleyanism. Narrow-minded, that. . . . Well, good-bye. So nice of you to come. Remember me to Canon Chatterbox. I must look him up next time I come to London and pull his leg about it. . . . Writing for the papers, indeed, at his age.’

And Colonel Blount retired victorious.

Late that evening Adam and Nina sat in the gallery of the Café de la Paix eating oysters.

‘Well we won’t bother any more about papa,’ she said. ‘We’ll just get married at once.’

‘We shall be terribly poor.’

‘Well, we shan’t be any poorer than we are now. . . . I think it will be divine. . . . Besides, we’ll be terribly economical. Miles says he’s discovered a place near Tottenham Court Road where you can get oysters for three and six a dozen.’

‘Wouldn’t they be rather ill-making?’

‘Well, Miles said the only odd thing about them is that they all taste a little different. . . . I had lunch with Miles to-day. He rang up to find where you were. He wanted to sell Edward Throbbing’s engagement to the _Excess_. But Van offered him five guineas for it, so he gave it to them.’

‘I’m sorry we missed that. The editor will be furious. By the way, how did the gossip page go? Did you manage to fill it all right?’

‘My dear, I think I did rather well. You see Van and Miles didn’t know I was in the trade, so they talked about Edward’s engagement a whole lot, so I went and put it in . . . was that very caddish? . . . and I wrote a lot about Edward and the girl he’s to marry. I used to know her when I came out, and that took up half the page. So I just put in a few imaginary ones like you do, so then it was finished.’

‘What did you say in the imaginary ones?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I said I saw Count Cincinnati going into Espinosa’s in a green bowler . . . things like that.’

‘_You said that?_’

‘Yes, wasn’t it a good thing to say. . . . Angel, is anything wrong?’

‘Oh, God.’

Adam dashed to the telephone.

‘Central ten thousand . . . put me through to the night editor. . . . Look here, I’ve got to make a correction in the Chatterbox page . . . it’s urgent.’

‘Sorry, Symes. Last edition went to bed half an hour ago. Got everything made up early to-night.’

So Adam went back to finish his oysters.

‘Bad tabulation there,’ said Lord Monomark next morning, when he saw the paragraph.

So Miles Malpractice became Mr Chatterbox.

‘Now we can’t be married,’ said Nina.

_Chapter Ten_

Adam and Miss Runcible and Miles and Archie Schwert went up to the motor races in Archie Schwert’s car. It was a long and cold drive. Miss Runcible wore trousers and Miles touched up his eyelashes in the dining-room of the hotel where they stopped for luncheon. So they were asked to leave. At the next hotel they made Miss Runcible stay outside, and brought her cold lamb and pickles in the car. Archie thought it would be nice to have champagne, and worried the wine waiter about dates (a subject which had always been repugnant to him). They spent a long time over luncheon because it was warm there, and they drank Kümmel over the fire until Miss Runcible came in very angrily to fetch them out.

Then Archie said he was too sleepy to drive any more, so Adam changed places with him and lost the way, and they travelled miles in the wrong direction down a limitless bye-pass road.

And then it began to be dark and the rain got worse. They stopped for dinner at another hotel, where every one giggled at Miss Runcible’s trousers in a dining-room hung with copper warming pans.

Presently they came to the town where the race was to be run. They drove to the hotel where the dirt-track racer was staying. It was built in the Gothic style of 1860, large, dark and called the Imperial.

They had wired him to book them rooms, but ‘Bless you,’ said the woman at the counter marked ‘Reception’, ‘all our rooms have been booked for the last six months. I couldn’t fit you in anywhere, not if you was the Speed Kings themselves, I couldn’t. I don’t suppose you’ll find anything in the town to-night. You might try at the Station Hotel. That’s your only chance.’

At the Station Hotel they made Miss Runcible wait outside, but with no better success.

‘I might put one of you on the sofa in the bar parlour, there’s only a married couple in there at present and two little boys, or if you didn’t mind sitting up all night, there’s always the palm lounge.’ As for a bed, that was out of the question. They might try at the ‘Royal George’, but she doubted very much whether they’d _like_ that even if there was room, which she was pretty sure there was not.

Then Miss Runcible thought that she remembered that there were some friends of her father who lived quite near, so she found out their telephone number and rang them up, but they said no, they were sorry, but they had a completely full house and practically no servants, and that as far as they knew they had never heard of Lord Chasm. So that was no good.

Then they went to several more hotels, sinking through the various graduations of Old Established Family and Commercial, plain Commercial, High Class Board Residence pension terms, Working Girls’ Hostel, plain Pub. and Clean Beds: Gentlemen Only. All were full. At last, by the edge of a canal, they came to the ‘Royal George’. The landlady stood at the door and rounded off an argument with an elderly little man in a bowler hat.

‘First ’e takes off ’is boots in the saloon bar,’ she said, enlisting the sympathy of her new audience, ‘which is not the action of a gentleman.’

‘They was wet,’ said the little man, ‘wet as ’ell.’

‘Well, and who wants your wet boots on the counter, I should like to know. Then, if you please, he calls me a conspiring woman because I tells him to stop and put them on before he goes ’ome.’

‘Want to go ’ome,’ said the little man. ‘’Ome to my wife and kids. _Trying to keep a man from ’is wife._’

‘No one wants to keep you from your wife, you old silly. All I says is for Gawd’s sake put on your boots before you go ’ome. What’ll your wife think of you coming ’ome without boots.’

‘She won’t mind ’ow I come ’ome. Why, bless you, I ain’t been ’ome at all for five years. It’s ’ard to be separated from a wife and kids by a conspiring woman trying to make yer put on yer boots.’

‘My dear, she’s quite right, you know,’ said Miss Runcible. ‘You’d far better put on your boots.’

‘There, ’ear what the lady says. Lady says you’ve to put on your boots.’

The little man took his boots from the landlady, looked at Miss Runcible with a searching glance, and threw them into the canal. ‘_Lady_,’ he said with feeling. ‘_Trousers_,’ and then he paddled off in his socks into the darkness.

‘There ain’t no ’arm in ’im really,’ said the landlady, ‘only he do get a bit wild when he’s ’ad the drink. Wasting good boots like that. . . . I expect he’ll spend the night in the lock-up.’

‘Won’t he get back to his wife, poor sweet?’

‘Lor’ bless you, no. She lives in London.’

At this stage Archie Schwert, whose humanitarian interests were narrower than Miss Runcible’s, lost interest in the discussion.

‘The thing we want to know is, can you let us have beds for the night?’

The landlady looked at him suspiciously.

‘Bed or beds?’

‘Beds.’

‘Might do.’ She looked from the car to Miss Runcible’s trousers and back to the car again, weighing them against each other. ‘Cost you a quid each,’ she said at last.

‘Can you find room for us all?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘which of you’s with the young lady?’

‘I’m afraid I’m all alone,’ said Miss Runcible. ‘Isn’t it too shaming?’