Arriving at the hotel quarter of an hour or so before lunch time, we strolled into the garden. Our low comedian, observing an elderly gentleman of dignified appearance sipping a glass of Vermouth at a small table, stood for a moment rooted to the earth with astonishment, then, making a bee-line for the stranger, seized and shook him warmly by the hand. We exchanged admiring glances with one another.
“Charlie is in good form to-day,” we told one another, and followed at his heels.
The elderly gentleman had risen; he looked puzzled. “And how's Aunt Martha?” asked him our low comedian. “Dear old Aunt Martha! Well, I am glad! You do look bonny! How is she?”
“I'm afraid—” commenced the elderly gentleman. Our low comedian started back. Other visitors had gathered round.
“Don't tell me anything has happened to her! Not dead? Don't tell me that!”
He seized the bewildered gentleman by the shoulders and presented to him a face distorted by terror.
“I really have not the faintest notion what you are talking about,” returned the gentleman, who seemed annoyed. “I don't know you.”
“Not know me? Do you mean to tell me you've forgotten—? Isn't your name Steggles?”
“No, it isn't,” returned the stranger, somewhat shortly.
“My mistake,” replied our low comedian. He tossed off at one gulp what remained of the stranger's Vermouth and walked away rapidly.
The elderly gentleman, not seeing the humour of the joke, one of our party to soothe him explained to him that it was Atherton, the Atherton—Charlie Atherton.
“Oh, is it,” growled the elderly gentleman. “Then will you tell him from me that when I want his damned tomfoolery I'll come to the theatre and pay for it.”
“What a disagreeable man,” we said, as, following our low comedian, we made our way into the hotel.
During lunch he continued in excellent spirits; kissed the bald back of the waiter's head, pretending to mistake it for a face, called for hot mustard and water, made believe to steal the silver, and when the finger-bowls arrived, took off his coat and requested the ladies to look the other way.
After lunch he became suddenly serious, and slipping his arm through mine, led me by unfrequented paths.
“Now, about this new opera,” he said; “we don't want any of the old stale business. Give us something new.”
I suggested that to do so might be difficult.
“Not at all,” he answered. “Now, my idea is this. I am a young fellow, and I'm in love with a girl.”
I promised to make a note of it.
“Her father, apoplectic old idiot—make him comic: 'Damme, sir! By gad!' all that sort of thing.”
By persuading him that I understood what he meant, I rose in his estimation.
“He won't have anything to say to me—thinks I'm an ass. I'm a simple sort of fellow—on the outside. But I'm not such a fool as I look.”
“You don't think we are getting too much out of the groove?” I enquired.
His opinion was that the more so the better.
“Very well. Then, in the second act I disguise myself. I'll come on as an organ-grinder, sing a song in broken English, then as a policeman, or a young swell about town. Give me plenty of opportunity, that's the great thing—opportunity to be really funny, I mean. We don't want any of the old stale tricks.”
I promised him my support.
“Put a little pathos in it,” he added, “give me a scene where I can show them I've something else in me besides merely humour. We don't want to make them howl, but just to feel a little. Let's send them out of the theatre saying: 'Well, Charlie's often made me laugh, but I'm damned if I knew he could make me cry before!' See what I mean?”
I told him I thought I did.
The leading lady, meeting us on our return, requested, with pretty tone of authority, everybody else to go away and leave us. There were cries of “Naughty!” The leading lady, laughing girlishly, took me by the hand and ran away with me.
“I want to talk to you,” said the leading lady, as soon as we had reached a secluded seat overlooking the river, “about my part in the new opera. Now, can't you give me something original? Do.”
Her pleading was so pretty, there was nothing for it but to pledge compliance.
“I am so tired of being the simple village maiden,” said the leading lady; “what I want is a part with some opportunity in it—a coquettish part. I can flirt,” assured me the leading lady, archly. “Try me.”
I satisfied her of my perfect faith.
“You might,” said the leading lady, “see your way to making the plot depend upon me. It always seems to me that the woman's part is never made enough of in comic opera. I am sure a comic opera built round a woman would be a really great success. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Kelver,” pouted the leading lady, laying her pretty hand on mine. “We are much more interesting than the men—now, aren't we?”
Personally, as I told her, I agreed with her.
The tenor, sipping tea with me on the balcony, beckoned me aside.
“About this new opera,” said the tenor; “doesn't it seem to you the time has come to make more of the story—that the public might prefer a little more human interest and a little less clowning?”
I admitted that a good plot was essential.
“It seems to me,” said the tenor, “that if you could write an opera round an interesting love story, you would score a success. Of course, let there be plenty of humour, but reduce it to its proper place. As a support, it is excellent; when it is made the entire structure, it is apt to be tiresome—at least, that is my view.”
I replied with sincerity that there seemed to me much truth in what he said.
“Of course, so far as I am personally concerned,” went on the tenor, “it is immaterial. I draw the same salary whether I'm on the stage five minutes or an hour. But when you have a man of my position in the cast, and give him next to nothing to do—well, the public are disappointed.”
“Most naturally,” I commented.
“The lover,” whispered the tenor, noticing the careless approach towards us of the low comedian, “that's the character they are thinking about all the time—men and women both. It's human nature. Make your lover interesting—that's the secret.”
Waiting for the horses to be put to, I became aware of the fact that I was standing some distance from the others in company with a tall, thin, somewhat oldish-looking man. He spoke in low, hurried tones, fearful evidently of being overheard and interrupted.
“You'll forgive me, Mr. Kelver,” he said—“Trevor, Marmaduke Trevor. I play the Duke of Bayswater in the second act.”
I was unable to recall him for the moment; there were quite a number of small parts in the second act. But glancing into his sensitive face, I shrank from wounding him.
“A capital performance,” I lied. “It has always amused me.”
He flushed with pleasure. “I made a great success some years ago,” he said, “in America with a soda-water syphon, and it occurred to me that if you could, Mr. Kelver, in a natural sort of way, drop in a small part leading up to a little business with a soda-water syphon, it might help the piece.”
I wrote him his soda-water scene, I am glad to remember, and insisted upon it, in spite of a good deal of opposition. Some of the critics found fault with the incident, as lacking in originality. But Marmaduke Trevor was quite right, it did help a little.
Our return journey was an exaggerated repetition of our morning drive. Our low comedian produced hideous noises from the horn, and entered into contests of running wit with 'bus drivers—a decided mistake from his point of view, the score generally remaining with the 'bus driver. At Hammersmith, seizing the opportunity of a block in the traffic, he assumed the role of Cheap Jack, and, standing up on the back seat, offered all our hats for sale at temptingly low prices.