Much to my regret, he took a very high-handed course with my review, and of all the twelve pages of carefully written foolscap (not to mention that I copied it three times) he only availed himself of twelve lines. The analytic part he remorselessly cut out, and the advice to the Clapham Macreadies, and most of the adverse criticism. In fact, all you would have gathered from the few commonplace paragraphs that finally appeared was this: that the Clapham Macreadies had produced Diplomacy, in the interests of a Cottage Hospital somewhere, and that they had given a painstaking and capable performance before a distinguished and enthusiastic audience. The usual finish and style inseparable from a Clapham Macready production was apparent, the ladies’ band excelled itself, and the Club was to be congratulated on adding another wreath to its laurels.
Of course, I had said all these things, but not in this bald and silly way. In fact, I was a good deal annoyed, and asked Brightwin rather bitterly what Mr. Bulger supposed I had hired a suit of dress clothes for, and gone down to Clap-ham, and racked my brain for twelve hours on Sunday, and so on; but he assured me that Mr. Bulger had been tremendously taken by my review and considered that I was a born critic and had really been far too conscientious in the matter.
It was my first glimpse behind the scenes of the press world, and I found that all that is written, even by critics, by no means gets into print.
I felt in the first pangs of disappointment that I would never put my pen to paper again, and so be lost to Mr. Bulger and Thespis forever; but when a week or two later he actually published “The Witches’ Sabbath” on the last page, under the title of “Original Poetry,” I forgave him all. He had undoubtedly tampered with “The Witches’ Sabbath” and reduced the number of the stanzas; but all the best of it was still there; and in print it looked decidedly literary. A great many mistakes had unfortunately crept into it; and Mr. Bulger had rather tampered with the terror in one or two of the most fearful verses. Still, it was mine, and as I passed home through London that day, with a copy of Thespis in my pocket, sent from the editor, I could not help wondering how little the hurrying thousands guessed that, as they carelessly elbowed me, they were touching a man who had written original poetry which had been accepted and printed in a public newspaper, and might be bought at any bookstall in London. It was rather a solemn thought in its way, and I stopped at a bookstall near Regent’s Circus to prove it, and threw down a penny and asked for Thespis. Much to my surprise, however, the man did not keep it in stock.
“We could get it for you, no doubt; but I thought it was dead,” he said.
“I can get it for myself, if it comes to that,” I answered, picking up the penny again. “You ought to stock it. All theatrical people buy it, and if you thought it was dead, you thought utterly wrong. It’s much more alive than you are.”
I then left him hastily, before he had time to think of a repartee.
XIII
My efforts at the L.A.C. threw rather a cloud on my career at this season, for they continued to be crowned with failure; in fact, the bitter truth was slowly brought home to me that I was not a good runner. I won a heat in two handicaps, after repeated losses; but when it came to the semi-finals, in both cases my performance was quite beneath consideration. I was very unequal, and Nat Perry said that my running was rather “in and out,” and Dicky Travers said that it might be misunderstood and count against me, though, of course, he knew it was not intentional, but just according to the sort of spirits I was in. For instance, if Mr. Westonshaugh had praised me at the office, or Mr. Montgomery Merridew had said I was getting on at the Dramatic School, then, curiously enough, I ran better; but if Mr. Westonshaugh had frowned, or Mr. Merridew had exhibited impatience about my deportment or voice production, then my legs seemed to feel it, and sulk, and go slower, just when I most wanted them to go faster. Such, no doubt, is life.
But, to compensate for these reverses, most extraordinary success attended my cricket, and at the end of the season it was found on calculation that I headed the batting list with an average of forty, decimal something, for eight completed innings. We were the champion insurance office that season, thanks in a measure to me and another much better man called Finlay, who bowled at a great pace and was also a steady run-getter. Then came the striking news that there was a bat given annually for the best average. It was bestowed publicly, in the Board Room, and the Secretary presented it in the name of the directors.