Читать книгу The Laslett Affair - Edward Harold Begbie - Страница 8

Table of Contents

Before the curtain went up, it was apparent to every one in the theatre that there was going to be trouble. Managers, hoping for the best, endeavoured to dispel the fears of actors and actresses on the stage, and a telephone message to the police was mentioned in the front of the house as a promise of security to gentlemen anxious about the safety of their wives.

But the din of voices in the theatre grew steadily louder; songs of a tipsy character came rowdily from the stalls; a party of young men standing in a box on the dress-circle tier was amusing itself by dropping lemons into the orchestra.

Hugh Jodrell, who was wearing the old-fashioned dress-suit of an older brother, and whose collar was frayed, and whose black tie was not of a fashionable shape, sat very upright in his stall and wished himself back at home. He had been made the hero of the dinner, and as fuss of any kind tended to disorganise his disposition, he had not enjoyed that festivity; moreover, he was entirely convinced that the really decisive thing in the match was Gunning’s amazing pass from the blind side of that critical scrummage, at the last moment in the game, the finest and surest pass he had ever seen; and besides this, he was still in training, booked to play for England in ten days’ time, and therefore in no mood for frolic.

All the same, sitting in his stall with no mind for a rag, he kept a smile on his face, hating to appear different from other members of the team, and looked about him as if the excitement amused him, as if he too was as ready as any one else for the fun of a lively night.

“Look at our brilliant Stephen,” said one of his neighbours, and laughingly indicated Stephen Laslett, who was standing up in the box on the dress-circle tier full of noisy young men, and was now apparently endeavouring to address the whole theatre.

“He’s pretty tight,” said Hugh’s other neighbour. “Wilson dined with Carrington, and he said that Stephen arrived at the dinner in a state of glory; must have had a dozen cocktails before he started. Couldn’t talk of any one but you, Jodder. I hope he isn’t going to fall out of the box. He might hurt some one.”

Jodrell, who was very fond of Stephen, and admired the brilliant ease of his mind, and believed that he might do wonderful things in the House of Commons, kept an eye on him, and felt sick to see his greatest friend making so conspicuous an ass of himself.

He had liked Stephen from their first association at Eton, and had felt that Stephen conferred a great honour by his friendship. He had never lost that early sense of inferiority even when he himself came to great triumphs at Cambridge. Stephen, in his eyes, had three wonderful gifts—swiftness of thought, vivid sympathies, and a gay gallantry of spirit. Moreover, Stephen was wonderfully attractive in appearance, and had an inherent dashingness of nature which made him a commanding figure in all assemblies. But, chief quality of all, Stephen was also, in his intimacies, a humble person, and would pour out to Jodrell his doubts, perplexities, and temptations, so that Jodrell, in trying to help him, had come to love him. No other man of his experience had so many gifts, so many attractions, so great a promise of a brilliant future, and yet so confiding and friendly a nature.

No sooner did the curtain go up, and the chorus begin to sing, than a loud cheer, mingled with discordant cries, filled the whole theatre, completely drowning the music. This loud cheer, and the various cries, were quite evidently inspired by the provocative dresses of the chorus. The chorus, visibly shaken, bravely kept up its usual smile, danced merrily, and pretended to be still singing, the cheers and cries growing louder and louder.

Jodrell looked away from Stephen, who was leaning right over the box to blow kisses to the girls on the stage, and sinking down in his stall gave himself up to a miserable effort to attend to the show.

At last, as if they had simultaneously exhausted themselves, all the raggers in the theatre suddenly fell silent, and the voices of the singers came to the audience with a pleasant freshness and sweetness. Even Jodrell revived, and sat up again in his seat. But almost immediately shouts were raised throughout the house, and various unpleasant insults were thrown at the girls of the chorus—insults which could be plainly heard, and which were awkward for married people to hear.

A famous comedian made his entrance. He was greeted first with resounding cheers, which delighted him, and then by angry boos and shouts of, “Go home: we don’t want you: we want the girls.” He pretended to be amused. He indulged in gestures and grimaces which he hoped might bring the interrupters to accept him; he walked easily and cheerfully about the stage, speaking to various ladies of the chorus; he advanced to the front and indulged in a laughing conversation with the conductor of the orchestra; then, suddenly straightening himself up, he gazed, as if spellbound, at the party of roysterers in the box.

There was a sudden pause. He seized it, and called up to the box, “Mr. Jodrell, I congratulate you. I never saw a finer——”

Deafening cheers filled the house, almost drowning the cries of, “He’s in the stalls! Jodder, stand up! We—want—Jodder! We—want—Jodder!” The comedian beat time to this cry, and in a sudden pause exclaimed, “And some people want our show, and I hope they’ll get it.” There were loud cheers for this. “If any one,” he shouted in a stern and angry voice which produced instant silence, “had interrupted your show this afternoon, by Jove, I’d have killed him!”

Rapturous was the delight of the undergraduates at this stroke. The comedian was cheered and cheered for a full two minutes, and then invited to go ahead, voices assuring him that he should have a fair deal.

To Jodrell’s horror, Stephen Laslett, standing in the box, and swaying over the edge of it, called out to the comedian:

“I give you my word of honour, I’ll see fair play. If any one interrupts you, I’ll chuck him out. And if you come up here, I’ll give you a drink.”

The revue proceeded from that moment with scarcely any serious interruptions, until, late in the evening, when an actor and actress appeared to sing a duet notorious in London both for its innuendoes and the amorous dancing with which it was accompanied. At this number, excitable young men, who had liberally refreshed themselves in the interlude, broke out into disorderly cries, most of them cries of mock protest, but some of them cries of salacious encouragement.

Jodrell turned to the man on his right for relief, “This is getting pretty ghastly. I’ve a good mind to chuck it. What do you think?”

“Oh, we shall have to stick it,” came the answer.

At that moment rose a new shout, sudden and sharp, and every one’s eyes were turned to the box in which Stephen Laslett and his party were leading the disorder. Jodrell looked, and sickened at what he saw, but with a certain swift anxiety in the midst of his disgust.

Stephen had climbed over the edge of the box, and, holding on to the hands of his friends, was being let down to the box below. He hung for a few seconds, his coat-sleeves withdrawing almost to his elbows, his toes feeling for a landing-place, and then slithered out of the grasp of his friends, stumbled awkwardly on the cushioned ledge, sprawled for a moment, staggered up, and swinging himself into the orchestra, presently climbed on to the stage. Amid a scene of the wildest tumult, he attempted to address the house, standing there with a whitish dust all over his splendid clothes, his shirt ridiculously crumpled, his eyes half-closed, his face brick-red. While the pandemonium was at its height, the manager appeared on the stage, and to a chorus of menacing boos attempted to persuade Stephen to withdraw. Stephen, whose hair was hanging limply over his forehead, and whose white tie was a little askew, could be seen stubbornly arguing with the manager, evidently attempting to persuade him that a speech would put an end to the hubbub.

Jodrell, watching Stephen, so handsome and so foolish, so splendidly high-spirited and yet so hopelessly and dreadfully an ass, thought of how often he had listened to his friend’s Platonising in Trinity and to his brilliant speeches in the Union, and wondered how a spirit so fine and swift could be capable of such pitiful folly.

There were cries all over the house of “Speech! Speech!”—accompanied by noises of every conceivable kind, chiefly zoological, and at last the manager desisted from his efforts, and Stephen came forward to the footlights, tremendously cheered.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, very solemnly, in a laughing silence that suddenly fell upon the house. His voice was pitched high, and rang with the excitement of his feelings. “As a member of, and a subscriber to the funds of, the Purity League,” he went on, waiting for a yell of delirious laughter to subside, “I greatly disapprove of the duet which has so rightly met with your protests.” Prolonged cheers greeted this austere judgment. “At the same time, to the pure all things are pure”—cries of, Not at all! Try again! Pure be damned for a tale!—“and if you will listen to this offensive duet, as I intend to listen to it, with a mind absolutely fireproof and a soul which has never known the contagion of the world’s slow stain——”

The shrieks, the yells, the cat-calls, and the shrill whistling which met him at this point, broke him down; he turned to the manager beside him, shook his hand, and was about to go back the way he had come, when the manager, taking his arm, led him gently to one of the wings. At this, there was a sudden movement of young men in the theatre towards the stage. “We want to go too,” they cried. “Put us among the girls.”

The scene that followed was one of wild disorder. The whole house appeared to be on its feet. Cries of derision and shrieks of hysterical laughter mingled with cries of terror. There was a movement of panic. Men and women were trying to escape to the exits; helmeted policemen were hurriedly entering at several points; undergraduates, flourishing walking-sticks and shouting war-cries, were shoving their way through the departing audience with the intention of storming the orchestra. The safety-curtain descended on a stage from which the performers were flying with uncontrollable alarm to the wings, while a few members of the orchestra, sticking to their post, bravely attempted to play the national anthem.