“Right, then I’ll put you down for the drunken slaveboy. First rehearsal to-morrow at ten in the lecture hall; thanks so much. Cheerioh.”
And so the “Buckshees” were formed.
But the difficulties did not lie merely in the calibre of the artists. There was the staging, the scenery, the music. Hayes had written the songs, but who was to score the melodies? The versatile Dowdon had promised to overrule the committee and orchestrate the parts, but what of the piano? For the only two musicians had been collared by the “Pows” and the “Shivers.” There were, of course, numerous strummers, but there was no composer. And it was amusing to watch the way Hayes set to work.
First of all he would write the lyric, and beat out a rhythm. He would then go and recite his composition to one Radcliffe, who could play the piano, but could not score a part; Radcliffe would get the drift of Hayes’s idea, and would in the course of hours compose a harmony of sorts, which he would play to his friend Gladstone, who could score a part but could not play a piano. Gladstone would jot down the notes; and behold a finished song, the result of a sort of Progressive Whist.
The troubles of staging were less difficult. The experts had, it is true, been already commandeered by the other societies. But a serviceable quartet of carpenters was discovered, and some decorative artists procured. All these arrangements Hayes left in charge of others. He knew the art of delegating responsibility, and he certainly had his hands full with his cast. For he relied for his success on vitality, innovations, and the quality which he always dubbed as “punch.” He did not ask for elaborate scenery. He knew he could not expect to equal effect of The Girl on the Stairs. He simply demanded an adequate setting. He would do the rest.
§ 3
With a company endowed with mediocre ability Hayes did wonders. He decided to have a beauty chorus, and with curses and entreaties he beat sixteen ungainly males into a semblance of the charm and delicacy of an Empire revue. It suffered a great deal, that chorus; it was cursed, and excommunicated. It was made a target for all the unmentionable swears. If it had been composed of girls, it would have spent half its time in tears. But eventually it emerged, in all its nudity, a machine. There was a big joyboard, running well into the auditorium; and on this it affected all the airs and graces of the courtesan. It cajoled and pleaded; it undulated with emotion. It swayed to each breath of melody, and it was not too unpleasant a sight, for Hayes had wisely transported it to an Eastern
island, to a harem, and the kindly veils of Ethiopian modesty. Through a mist of white calico it was impossible to discern the razored roughness of a cheek, and the unrazored blackness of an upper lip. The chorus was a triumph.