“We were just chewing over a few problems,” said Mrs Forrester. “You sit down over there.” She pointed to an empty armchair. “I’m sure you’ll agree with me. Now listen: the first scene of the play is a storm at sea; the garden at St Agnes’ runs right down to the lake; why can’t we have the first scene on a real ship in the lake, and then get everybody to move their chairs to the upper lawn for the rest of the play?”
“I don’t think they’d like to walk all that way, carrying chairs,” said Professor Vambrace. “Many members of our audience are advanced in years. As a matter of fact, they may stay away from a pastoral; the damp, you know, after sundown.”
“It seems to me that Mrs Pauldron brought that up when it was suggested that we use her lawn,” said Griselda, innocently.
“It’s quite a different quality of damp at her place,” said Mrs Forrester; “and the garden at St Agnes’ is on a much higher ground. The warmth of the day lingers there much longer.”
This remarkable piece of sophistry was allowed to pass without further comment.
“Larry won’t like it,” said Solly; “in fact I don’t suppose he’d even talk about it. Your scheme would mean two sets of lights.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Mrs Forrester; “the ship scene would be played before sundown. There would be a lovely natural light.”
“It isn’t really practical, Nell,” said Valentine Rich. “Audiences hate hopping up and down. And anyhow, where would your storm be on a perfectly calm bay?”
“If we are going to act outdoors, why don’t we make the utmost use of Nature?” said Nellie. “Surely that’s the whole point of pastorals; to get away from all the artificiality of the theatre, and co-operate with the beauty of Nature?”
“No, Nell; I’ve done several outdoor plays, and my experience has been that Nature has to be kept firmly in check. Nature, you see, is very difficult to rehearse, and Nature has a bad trick of missing its cues. If I am to direct the play, I really must veto the ship on the lake.”
“All right,” said Nellie, “but if you wish later on that you had done it, don’t expect any sympathy from me.”
“I promise you that I won’t,” said Valentine.
It was at this point that Roscoe Forrester came in from the kitchen with a tray of drinks. He was a man who liked to make a commotion about refreshments. When Valentine asked for a whisky and soda he was loud in his approval; that, he said, was what he liked to hear. When Griselda asked for some soda water with a slice of lemon in it he became coy and strove to persuade her to let him put “just a little stick” in it.
“No, really,” said she; “my father has promised me a bicycle if I don’t drink until I’m fifty.”
“But you’ve already got a car—,” said Roscoe, and then perceiving that a mild jest was toward, he roared, and slapped his thigh, and called upon the others to enjoy it. He was the sort of man who does not expect women to make jokes.
“I don’t permit Pearl to touch a drop,” said Professor Vambrace, solemnly. “A matter of principle. And also, she is obliged to favour her stomach.”
Roscoe hastened to agree that a girl’s stomach deserved every consideration. “What about you, hon?” he asked, beaming at his wife.
“Well, just a weeny wee drinkie,” said Nellie, and as he poured it she gave little gasps and smothered shrieks as evidence of her fear that it might turn into a big drinkie.
Professor Vambrace’s principle was solely for his daughter’s benefit; when asked to pour for himself he was generous, though sparing with the soda which, he explained unnecessarily, was likely to cause acidity if taken in too great quantity. Hector and Solly were allowed to receive their drinks without comment.
It was then discovered that Hector had taken Roscoe’s chair, and there was a polite uproar, Roscoe asserting loudly that he preferred the floor to any chair ever made, Hector saying that he could not hear of such a thing, and Professor Vambrace pointing out very sensibly that the dining-room was full of chairs, which he would be happy to move in any quantity. At last order was restored, with Roscoe on the floor smiling too happily, as people do when they seek to spread an atmosphere of ease and calm.
“There’s a point which we mustn’t overlook,” said Nellie, turning her wee drinkie round and round in her hands and looking solemnly. “We’ll have a lot of resistance to break down, doing a pastoral. People here haven’t been educated to them, yet. Actually, you might say that we are pioneering the pastoral in this part of the world. So we’ll need strong backing.”
“I don’t favour advertisement,” said Professor Vambrace; “I’ve never found that it paid.” This was true; in the quantities approved by Professor Vambrace, advertisement might just as well not have been attempted; he was a homeopath in the matter of public announcement.
“It isn’t advertisement in the ordinary sense that I’m thinking about,” said Nellie; “I mean, we want to get the right people behind us. I wonder if we wouldn’t be wise to have a list of patrons, and put them in the programme.”
“Aha, I see what you mean,” said Professor Vambrace, glowering intelligently over his glass; “friends, as it were, of the production. In that case, the leading name would be that of Mr G. A. Webster, the father of our charming young friend, here; he has lent his garden, and that is very real support—solid support, I may say.” He laughed, deeply and inwardly; it was as though barrels were being rolled in the cellars of the apartment house.
“It goes without saying that Mr Webster is a very important patron,” said Nellie, in what she conceived to be a tactful tone, “and his name must be on the list along with the District Officer Commanding and both Bishops, and the Provost of Waverley and the Mayor and the president of the Chamber of Commerce. But to head the list I feel that we want a name which will mean something to everybody—the name of someone whose position is absolutely unassailable; I was rather thinking—what would you say to Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood?”
In such roundabout terms as these are the secret passions of the heart brought before the world. Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood was the god of Nellie’s idolatry. This lady, whom she had rarely seen, was her social ideal; the late Conquergood had been associated in some highly honourable capacity with the Army, and he and his wife had been moderately intimate at Rideau Hall during the Governor-Generalship of the Duke of Devonshire; the widow Conquergood was reputed to be very wealthy, and doubtless the report was correct, for she enjoyed that most costly of all luxuries in the modern world, privacy; she was very rarely seen in Salterton society, and when she appeared, she might have been said to hold court. Nellie had met her but once. She did not seek to thrust herself upon her goddess; she wished only to love and serve Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood, to support and if such a thing were possible, increase her grandeur. If Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood’s name might appear, alone, at the top of an otherwise double column of patrons of the Salterton Little Theatre then, in Nellie’s judgement, the drama had justified its existence, Thespis had not rolled his car in vain, and Shakespeare was accorded a posthumous honour which he barely deserved.
There is a dash of pinchbeck nobility about snobbery. The true snob acknowledges the existence of something greater than himself, and it may, at some time in his life, lead him to commit a selfless act. Nellie would, under circumstances of sufficient excitement, have thrown herself in the path of runaway horses to save the life of Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood, and would have asked no reward—no, not even an invitation to tea—if she survived the ordeal. Such a passion is not wholly ignoble. She had schemed for four months for this moment when she would put her adored one’s name at the head of a list of patrons for The Tempest, and nothing must go wrong now.