Incongruity, in a way, was the keynote of the whole thing.
Diamond Harter wasn’t in the least beautiful, and certainly not charming. She was his senior by several years and, as Mrs. Kendal said, later on, with her extraordinary gift for emphasising the unessential —
“Mrs. Harter was not, in any sense of the word, a Lady.”
One is left wondering how many “senses of the word” exist, and what they all are.
A few days after the concert we decided that we would give a dance.
The Ambreys had come up to tea, as they often do on Sundays, and Mrs. Fazackerly came, and Bill Patch. I remember that Nancy Fazackerly looked pretty that day, in a hat trimmed with blue daisies and a blue cotton frock, that seemed to be striped with a darker blue.
(Amy Kendal, who walked up later with Mumma, of course said to her: “How smart you look!” in a reproving way. And Christopher Ambrey, to whom the Kendal manner is not the familiar thing that it is to us, asked me what that impertinent woman meant.)
“This is the very place for a dance,” said Sallie looking round the hall. “I can’t imagine why anyone hasn’t thought of it before.”
Sallie is always rather apt to assume that because she has not thought of a thing herself, nobody else has done so, and this is a trick, amongst many others, that exasperates Claire.
“There were dances here before you were born or thought of, my child. It may seem very strange to you,” said Claire ironically, “but I happen to have been rather an unusually good dancer.”
Her annoyance was so obvious in her voice and manner — Claire never succeeds in dissembling her feelings — that Nancy Fazackerly characteristically came to the rescue.
“I love to see you dance, Lady Flower,” she said earnestly. “I believe you’d even make the new jazz dances look graceful.”
She said it so naturally and sincerely that I felt I was an ungrateful brute for reflecting that she had probably never in her life seen Claire dance a step.
Sometimes I think that a long course of being told that she is the worst housekeeper, or the most inadequate manager in the world, varied only by the nerve-shattering experience of plates hurled at her head, has altogether destroyed Mrs. Fazackerly’s capacity for distinguishing fact from fiction. I am sure that she does not consciously fib. It is simply that her sense of expediency has completely got the better of her. Truthful she undoubtedly is not, but I have always believed in her sincerity. And we were all secretly grateful to her for restoring Claire’s good humour.
“I may not have a staff of A.D.C.’s, but I have had quite as much experience in entertaining as Lady Annabel Bending, I imagine,” said Claire, with some elasticity of statement. “And I should like to do something of the kind.”
“The difficulty will be to get men,” Mrs. Kendal stated, with all the Kendal directness. “You know how few men there are anywhere near Cross Loman. The girls often say that it’s next door to impossible to get a man for anything round here. Of course Ahlfred would come down for it, and perhaps he could bring a friend — that would be two men.”
We tried to look encouraged.
“Let’s make a list of the people you want to invite, Cousin Claire.”
Claire dictated names, and Sallie wrote them down, and we all made suggestions. The monosyllable “men” must have resounded through the hall fifty times in Mumma’s emphatic contralto.
The list approximated to about forty couples, when it was done. I said that I thought we ought to do the thing properly, and invite the whole neighbourhood, not merely dancers. “Can’t we have Bridge, or something, to amuse the older people?” said I, not without a thought to my own entertainment.
“I know!” cried Martyn. “Let’s have theatricals — ask everybody to come and see them, and then have a dance afterwards for those who like it.”
Christopher, Mrs. Fazackerly, Sallie, and Captain Patch received the suggestion with such clamorous enthusiasm that Claire and I exchanged a glance and a word under cover of it.
“Would you care to, Claire? I’m quite ready, if you are, and it would amuse Christopher.”
“Yes, it would. We haven’t done anything for a long time, either, and Cross Loman really had had enough of the Drill Hall entertainments, I should imagine.”
I knew that she was thinking of Lady Annabel again.
“You can have your theatricals, Martyn,” said Claire graciously. “I think it’s rather a good idea, and we’ll have dancing in the saloon afterwards.”
The list was revised, added to, and discussed all over again.
“But who will act in the theatricals?” Mary said. “And what are you going to act?”
“Captain Patch will write something — Oh yes, you must, or what’s the good of having an author here at all — and we’d better tell him just how many people there are who can act, and then he can have the right number of parts,” said Sallie rapidly. “And anyone who can’t act and wants to, can be told that there isn’t a part.”
“None of us can act to save our lives,” Amy Kendal superfluously informed us.
“I cannot write a play,” said Bill Patch very firmly indeed. “But we could get up something musical, if you liked, and write our own libretto, and just set it to any tune that fits. I’ve seen that done very successfully at short notice, and it’s all there’ll be time for, if Lady Flower’s dance is to be three weeks from to-day.”
“Fancy your saying that you couldn’t write a play! I’m sure you could write a play, Captain Patch,” said Mrs. Kendal amiably. “If a book, why not a play?”
Bill Patch looked rather desperate, and said he didn’t know why not, but he couldn’t, and Mumma remarked again, three or four times, that she was quite sure he could easily write a play.
“Miles, why don’t you stage-manage it for them?” said Mary Ambrey. “They’ll want someone..”
In the end, they settled it that way, after talking until nearly eight o’clock.
The last thing I heard, as everyone took leave of us at the same moment, was Mumma reiterating pleasantly but steadily, her conviction: (a) that it would be difficult to get enough men, and (b) that she was quite sure Captain Patch could easily write a play.
V
Two days later, Bill Patch and Mrs. Fazackerly came to consult us about their joint production.
“It isn’t a play,” Captain Patch said, his red hair standing up on end. “Whatever Mrs. Kendal may think about it, I cannot write a play. But we’ve strung something together, more or less — mostly a few songs.”
“We thought you’d know more about it than anybody else, and would advise us,” said Nancy Fazackerly prettily.
“Even Mrs. Kendal has never suggested that I could write a play, my dear.”
“But I’ve sometimes wondered whether I oughtn’t to have gone in for writing,” said Claire. “Only I haven’t had the time.”
“It’s more about the performers, than the actual play, that we want advice,” explained Captain Patch. “Though even that isn’t going to be all plain sailing. General Kendal—”
“Mostly kindly — —” said Nancy Fazackerly.
“Most kindly,” Bill repeated, in a worried, obedient sort of way. “Most kindly turned up last night with a pair of Hessian boots.”
“Hessian boots?”
“He thought they’d make such a good stage property, and that we ought to write something that would make use of them. He really was most awfully keen, poor old fellow, and of course it isn’t a bad idea, in its way. Hessian boots, you know — you don’t see them nowadays.”
To this we assented.
“One could do something with a uniform, and the boots would give a finish, as it were,” Mrs. Fazackerly suggested.
“Hessian boots, and a belt, and a busby, would give the idea of a Russian, I thought,” Bill Patch explained. “And we thought of doing something with that old song, ‘The Bul-bul Ameer.’ You could make quite a lot out of it, and it would be much easier to dress up to
that sort of thing than to a regular play. You remember the song I mean?”
“I brought it with me,” said Mrs. Fazackerly, and then and there she read it aloud in her pleasant, rather pathetic voice.
“The sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold, And quite unaccustomed to fear —
But of all, the most reckless of life or of limb, Was Abdul, the Bul-bul Ameer.
When they wanted a man to encourage the van, Or to shout ‘hull-a-loo’ in the rear —
Or to storm a redoubt, they straightway sent out For Abdul, the Bul-bul Ameer.
“There are heroes in plenty and well-known to fame In the ranks that are led by the Czar; But among the most reckless of name or of fame Was Ivan Petruski Skivah.
He could imitate Irving, play euchre or pool And perform on the Spanish guitar; In fact, quite the cream of the Muscovite team Was Ivan Petruski Skivah.
“One morning the Russian had shouldered his gun And put on his most cynical sneer, When, going down town, he happened to run Into Abdul, the Bul-bul Ameer.
Said the Bul-bul, ‘Young man, is your life then so dull, That you’re anxious to end your career?
For, infidel, know that you’ve trod on the toe Of Abdul, the Bul-bul Ameer’
“Said the Russian, ‘My friend, your remarks in the end Will only prove futile, I fear; For I mean to imply that you’re going to die, Mr. Abdul, the Bul-bul Ameer.’
The Bul-bul then drew out his trusty chibouque, And, shouting out ‘Allah Akbar,’
Being also intent upon slaughter, he went For Ivan Petruski Skivah.
“When, just as the knife was ending his life —
In fact, he had shouted ‘Huzza!’ —
He found himself struck by that subtle calmuck, Bold Ivan Petruski Skivah.
There’s a grave where the wave of the blue Danube flows, And on it, engraven so clear, Is, ‘Stranger, remember to pray for the soul Of Abdul, the Bul-bul Ameer.’
“Where the Muscovite maiden her vigil doth keep By the light of the true lover’s star, The name so she tenderly murmurs in sleep Is ‘Ivan Petruski Skivah.’
The sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold And quite unaccustomed to fear; But of all, the most reckless of life or of limb, Was Abdul, the Bul-bul Ameer.”
“It’s not a bad tune,” said Captain Patch. “You see, someone comes on and sings the whole thing straight off — just to put the audience in touch with the general hang of affairs — and then, I thought we’d act it. This fellow Abdul, you know, full of swagger — dressed up like a Turk — nothing easier than to dress like a Turk on the stage — a towel twisted round your head, and shoes turning up at the toes, and a billhook or something for a scimitar, and everyone tumbles to it directly. Well, Abdul could get quite a lot of laughs by putting on tremendous side, and all that sort of thing. Then the Russian chap — or we could just call him Slavonic, if you think Russians are rather a slump in the market just now — of course he’s in love with Abdul’s girl, the Muscovite maiden. He’d have to be the hero of the piece — Ivan Petruski Skivah — flourishing about with a sword, and that kind of thing — and in uniform—”
“The Hessian boots?”
“Exactly. The Hessian boots. A note of realism introduced at once—”
“And what about the Muscovite maiden?” said Claire.
“She’ll sing duets with Ivan Petruski, of course, and she’s easy to dress too. A veil over her head, and slave-bangles, and perhaps a Yashmak. An Eastern get-up is always effective, and so very economical to arrange,” said Mrs. Fazackerly with satisfaction.
“We’re going to put in extra parts as well — chorus of Eastern maidens, and Cossacks, and things like that. But those are the principals.”
“And how have you cast it?” I inquired.
“Sallie must be the Muscovite maiden. She’ll look sweet,” said Mrs. Fazackerly, “and she can sing, too.”
“Will Major Ambrey take on the Bul-bul Ameer?” Captain Patch asked.
Christopher was not present. We were both positive that he would refuse the suggested honour, and we knew well, moreover, that Christopher is no musician. I have heard him sing in church.
“You’ll have to do it yourself, Captain Patch,” said Claire. “How about the Hessian boots?”
“We thought of Martyn. And someone will be wanted to sing the song itself, as a kind of prologue, before the curtain goes up,” said Mrs. Fazackerly.
I remember that she looked as much pleased and excited over their plans as a child over a party.
“You see, that song is meant to be a — a sort of recurring motif throughout the whole show,” Bill said. “When we’re at rather a loose end, someone can play the refrain, or sing it, and it will buck things up at once. It’s extraordinary how pleased an audience always is with anything that’s repeated often enough. They know where they are, I suppose, when they recognise an old friend. And at the end, we can all stand in a row across the stage and sing the chorus together. You know the kind of thing — just to bring down the curtain.”
He looked just as much pleased and excited as Nancy Fazackerly did. They were like two very nice children.
“It sounds all right,” I said. “I take it that we really want to do the acting amongst ourselves as much as possible, and entertain the rest of the people and then wind it all up with a dance.”
“Exactly,” said Claire.
“The only outside talent, as far as one can see at present, will be Mrs. Harter,” said Bill Patch and he was genuinely unconcerned about it, too.
But I saw that Nancy Fazackerly knew well enough that Claire wasn’t going to stand for that.
“Mrs. Harter?”
There was more than one note of interrogation in Claire’s way of saying it — quite three or four.
“You remember how rippingly she sang ‘the Bluebells of Scotland’ the other night?”
“Oh, yes, I remember that.”
“We thought of her, for the ‘Bul-bul Ameer’ song at the beginning because one really does want someone who’ll pronounce all the words distinctly. And she’s got a good ‘carrying’ voice, if ever I heard one.”
“I daresay,” said Claire distantly.
Bill Patch looked from one to another of us, and I remembered how, the first time I saw him, he had reminded me of a Clumber spaniel — so young, and awkward, and eager — and now, evidently, so much puzzled as well.
“Her voice really is a very good one,” said Mrs. Fazackerly, pleadingly. “And I’m rather sorry for her, do you know? After all, in Egypt she must have had a very amusing time, and known heaps of people — and now to come back to Cross Loman—”
“Where she came from!” ejaculated Claire.
“I know — but that makes it harder, in a way. She’s outgrown the people whom she saw most of, when she was Diamond Ellison — and after all, she wasn’t so very much more than a schoolgirl when she married and went away. I think she feels a little bit stranded, sometimes.”
“Where is Mr. Harter — and what is he?” Claire demanded.
“He is a solicitor — and he’s still in the East, but he may come home this summer. I don’t think the marriage is a very happy one,” said Mrs. Fazackerly, looking down.
I fancy that to all of us there then came a momentary vision of crockery, propelled violently through space, after the reckless habit that report has imputed to Mrs. Fazackerly’s excitable partner.
“It would be so very kind of you, Lady Flower, to say that we may ask her to help with the show,” said Nancy, raising her pretty eyes to Claire’s face, and speaking with her habitual flattering deference.
“You see, if once you gave a lead, Mrs. Harter wouldn’t feel out of things any more.”
“And,” said Captain Patch, not quite so diplomatically— “it would be such a shame to waste that beautiful voice.”
“Who is going to play your accompaniments — or do you rise to an orchestra?” I interrupted.
“I can play the accompaniments,” said Mrs. Faz
ackerly radiantly. “It’s all I’m good for. I have no voice, and I can’t act. Which reminds me that some of the Kendals really ought to be asked to take part, oughtn’t they, after General Kendal has so very kindly provided those boots.”
“Perhaps Alfred, and two of the girls, might do something in the chorus, without damaging it.”
“We must go and find out. And — and what about Mrs. Harter?”
Claire shrugged her shoulders.
“I think it’s rather a mistake to ask her, myself. But please do exactly as you like about it. If her voice is essential, then I suppose she must be asked.”
“Now, what about the stage itself?”
Nancy Fazackerly was quite wise enough not to press the question of Mrs. Harter any further, and they went off into a discussion as to the structure and position of the stage.
I asked Claire afterwards if she really objected very much to letting old Ellison’s daughter take part in the performance.
“She won’t expect to be asked here afterwards if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“How do you know she won’t? I thought that she looked like a pushing sort of woman, and common.”
“Do you remember how they did those portraits of her, in Sallie’s game, the other day?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It struck me as odd, that they’d all thought enough about her to find it worth while — although not one of them knows her in the least intimately.”
“As I said at the time, Miles, she has personality. I suppose I have personality myself. It’s an indefinable sort of thing.”
We left it at that.
Mrs. Fazackerly and Captain Patch were to have a week in which to prepare their programme, and after that there was to be a general assembly of the prospective performers.
“And you’ll preside, won’t you, to settle about parts, and then no one will be hurt or offended,” said Mrs. Fazackerly, speaking, I fear, from a wide past experience of the wonderful capacities of other people for being hurt or offended on the very slightest provocation.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 242