UNDER THE ROSE.
(A Story in Scenes).
Scene XIII.—"Behind" at the Eldorado. Time—about 10 P.M.; the Stage at the back of the Scene-cloth is in partial darkness; in the centre, a pile of lumber and properties. Bare whitewashed brick walls; at one side, two canvas cabins for the Lady-Artistes to change their costumes; near them a deal table, with a jug and glasses. At one of the wings, behind the proscenium, a shelf and small mirror, at which the Comedians can arrange their make-up, and a frame, in which a placard, with each Artiste's number, is inserted before his or her entrance. A "turn" has just been concluded, and the Stage is clear.
The Stage-Manager (bustling up to Footman, in crimson plush breeches). Now then, look alive, there, can't you, they're getting impatient in front. Why don't you change the number?
Footman (with aggrieved dignity). Because, Sir, Mr. Alf Redbeak ought to come on, by rights, and, not 'aving chosen to appear yet, I think you'll see yourself, on reflection, as it would be totally——
Stage-M. Well, don't argue about it; here's Miss Lushboy ready to go on, put her number up!
Footm. I always understood it was the regulation 'ere that no number was to be put up until the band-parts were passed into the orchestra; which Miss Lushboy's music most certainly has not been handed in yet, and, that bein' so——
Stage-M. You can spare a good yard off that tongue of yours, you can; put Miss Lushboy's number up, and——Ah, here comes Mr. Redbeak; never mind.
Enter Mr. Redbeak, breathless.
Mr. Redbeak. Phew! I've had a job to get 'ere in time, I can tell you. (The Orchestra strikes up.) 'Ullo, that ain't mine. (To Footman.) What are you about? Put up my number—sharp, now!
Miss Lushboy (to Footman). Here, let me go on; I've been messing about long enough. What are you taking my number out for?
Footm. Now, look 'ere, Miss, I can't please everybody! (Indicating Stage-Manager.) You are as well aware as what I am that it's for him to give the word 'ere, not me. I'm on'y actin' under what——
Mr. Redb. It's crule, you know, that's what it is—crule. I've got to go right across London for my next turn, and——
The Stage-M. (returning). What the blazes are we waiting for now? Alf, dear boy, you should come up to time. (To Footman.) Why don't you do as you're told? You're getting too big for your boots, it strikes me! (To Miss Lushboy.) There, go on, my dear, go on.
[Miss L. bounds on to the stage, and begins her song.
Mr. Redb. (to Footman). I've got a bone to pick with you, old feller. Don't you go wool-gatherin' to-night, as you did last. I've told you till I'm tired that when you see me chuck this property piecrust into the wings you've got to throw down these fire-irons—it's a safe laugh every time it comes off, and you know 'ow important it is, and yet you forget it nine times out of ten! What's the good of me thinkin' out my business when you go and crab it for me?
Footm. (pathetically). Mr. Redbeak, Sir, you'll excuse me, but I'm on'y one man 'ere, I ain't a 'undred. Don't thank 'eaven for it, Sir, it's 'ard when a man as tries to do his best, and with all my responsibilities on him——
Mr. Redb. (impatiently). Oh, cheese it; you're not on a stool in 'Ide Park, are you? I'm only tellin' you.
Miss L. (on stage, singing chorus).
Say, boys, say, if you'd like to come. Who's for a merry old "Tiddley-um?"
Fall in behind, and we'll all get "blind," before they close the pub!
You're not jays, so you won't refuse. Join our band, for we're on the booze,
And you'll see some larks with the rollicking sparks of the Rowdy Razzle Club!
(Here she capers off, brandishing a gibus, and has a difficulty in opening the practicable door in the wing. To Footman.) There you are again! How often am I to tell you to keep that wood open for my dance off? I break my fingers over it every blessed night, and lose my encore as well!
Footm. I'm exceedingly sorry, miss, but the fact of the matter is my attention was took off at the time owing to——
Miss L. Oh, hold your jaw, do.
Footm. (to himself). I'm to hold my jaw! Oh, these hartistes, they lead me a dorg's life among 'em!
Mr. Redb. (touching Miss L.'s coat as she passes). What's that badge you're wearing? Salvation Army, Temperance, Primrose League, or what?
Miss L. No, only the colours of the Balls Pond Football Team; they presented them to me the other day. I told them I didn't play football.
Mr. Redb. You're pretty fair at the 'igh kick though, ain't you? There, there. 'Alf time. Goin' on again?
Miss L. With a cold like mine? Not likely. Just look at my tongue! (She protrudes the tip of an indigo-coloured tongue for his inspection.)
Mr. Redb. (concerned). Why, it's like one o' those Chow-chow dogs, I'm blest if it isn't! You are off colour to-night, no mistake!
Miss L. Oh, that's the remedy, not the disease—liquorice, you know.
Stage-M. Now, Alf, if you're in such a hurry, go on. Cut it as short as you like—no extra turns to-night.
Mr. Redb. No fear. Oh dear, oh dear, such a rush as it is!
[He goes on grumbling.
A Small Boy (who has been sitting patiently on a chair by the wing—to Stage-Manager). If you please, Sir, will Mr. Wildfire want me to-night?
Miss L. Want you, indeed, you silly kid! What would Mr. Wildfire want a shrimp like you for?
The Boy. If he's going to do the Sandwich Man 'ere to-night, he'll want me, I know. Why, it all depends on me, that song does. (To Stage-M.) Is he going to do the Sandwich Man to-night, Sir?
Stage-M. Oh, don't bother me; wait till he comes and you'll find out. (To Miss L.) I suppose you've heard he's talking of not renewing his engagement after to-night—giving up the halls altogether!
Miss L. And no great loss either! I don't see anything particular about his songs myself. As for all that gas about his raising the tone of the halls, it's sickening. Anyone would suppose we lowered it!
Miss Cissie Cinders (coming out of a dressing-cabin, in a battered old velvet hat and broken feathers, with her face smudged). Who's that you're talking about? Wildfire? Ah, my dear, this 'Igh Art and Littery rot'll be the ruin of the 'alls—him and his articles in the swell magazines, praising us all up—he can keep his praises to himself—I don't want 'em! I've never set up to refine the public myself, or else I could fake it easy enough!
[She passes on to stage.
Mr. Gus. Tadman (Variety Vocalist). We could all do it, come to that. But there, he won't last, you'll see. Why, look at the 'it I made with my "Rorty Naughty Nell"! That was a good song if you like, and well-written, mind yer. But lor, it's clean forgotten now. I 'ear Wildfire's bringing out a play to-night at the Hilarity, it'll serve him right if it gets the bird, going back on his own profession like that! (To Miss Cinders, who has just sung.) House cold to-night?
"It's like singing to a lot of 'ap'ny ices!"
Miss Cinders (in a temper). Cold, it's like singing to a lot of 'ap'ny ices! I used to have the choruses all sung for me when I brought out that song first; and now they've let me go off without a 'and! We shall see whether they'll rise to Wildfire to-night. Ah, here he is. Actually coming up to speak to us; there's an honour!
Miss Betsy Beno (to Wildfire, as he passes the table where she is sitting waiting for her turn). 'Ere, Watty, old man, stop and 'ave a drop along of me. Do—there's plenty 'ere! (as Wildfire excuses himself laughingly). Well, I'm sure—refusing to drink when a lady goes out of her way to ask him—he hasn't the manners of a pig! And I draw my sixty quid a week the same as he does!
Mr. Tadman. Well, dear boy, how's the play getting on? Not a frost, I hope?
Wildfire. No; I just looked in on my way from the Val. here, and they seemed to think it was all right; but I couldn't stay till the finish. They're going to send round and let me know. (To the Small Boy, who has approached anxiously.) Oh, there you are, youngster! Yes, I shall want you—for the last time, you know.
The Boy. Why, you—you ain't going to take the part away from me, Sir, when I created it, too!
Wildf. (patting his shoulder kindly). I'm giving up singing altogether—that's why. Never mind; I'll see it makes no difference to you, so don't you distress yourself. We'll find you something or other to do.
The Boy (with a gulp). If I ain't going to be with you any more, I—I don't care what 'appens, Sir. I'd as soon throw up the perfession myself, I would!
[He turns away into a dark corner.
Wildf. (to himself, as he goes to the wing). Nice boy that; didn't think he'd care so much; must keep an eye on him. Flattery must be over now. I wish I could have stayed to see it out; it was going magnificently; but there were some rather risky scenes ahead. Still, I believe it's a success; and, if it is, I shall have done with all this for ever after to-night. I can go to Althea and tell her, without—— By Jove! wasn't it to-night that Old Toovey was to be in front? I wonder what he'll think of it. (He looks at himself in the mirror.) He'll have some difficulty in recognising me in this get up. Well, I shall know on Monday. (He goes on, and sings; then rushes back to the wing to change his costume, with the assistance of his dresser.) Yes, the coat, now, dresser, please. (To himself, as he paints some lines on his face.) I couldn't see anyone at all like old Toovey. Very odd! They must have sent him the box, I suppose. Well, it doesn't matter; if he didn't think it necessary to come, so much the better. (Aloud.) Wigpaste, please. Now the boards. All right—I'm ready. (To the Boy.) Now, youngster, look out for your cue.
[He goes on.
The Limelight Man (up in the flies—to himself). What's wrong with Mr. Wildfire? He as nearly broke down just now as——and I can't keep the limelight on him nohow to-night! He can't have been drinking—he ain't that sort. But he do look bad—it's as much as ever he can do to go through with it; somethink's given him a turn.
Wildfire (to himself, as he goes back to the wing, unsteadily). She's here—and, what's worse, she's recognised me! She must have, or she would never have looked like that. If I could only have told her first; but, to discover it like this,—she'll think I meant to—— (He pitches away his boards in a fury.) Well, I've done for myself—it's all over! (To his dresser.) A note, eh?
[He opens it, and reads the contents mechanically; Mr. Tadman and one or two other artistes come up with curiosity on seeing his expression.
Tadm. Why, Wildfire, old man, what's this? Play gone wrong? Never mind, dear boy, we can't have everything. But what's the report, eh?
Wildf. (impatiently). Oh, I don't know. What does it matter now? (He lets the note fall.) There, you can read it if you want to know.
[He walks away.
Tadm. (with complacency). Poor chap, he's hard hit! But I could have told him it wasn't to be expected that—— (He picks up the note, and reads it with a falling jaw.) Hullo! What's the meaning of this? It says the piece is a tremendous go—safe for a long run—had to raise the rag again and again. Why, he'll make his fortune over this alone; and yet, look at him! (Pointing to Wildfire, who has seated himself on the pile of lumber, in utter dejection.) And all those fools in front clapping and stamping for him to come on again. What more does the feller want, I wonder!
End of Scene XIII.
Union is (Logical) Weakness.—The Congregational Union lays it down as a law, "that the rights of humanity must take precedence of those of property." We fear this admirable maxim (like equally admirable Charity) might be made to cover a multitude of sins, from petty larceny to anarchism. Would it be consonant with the "rights of humanity," for, say, a Congregational Unionist to object to a poor tramp stealing his best umbrella on a wet day?