by Bram Stoker
‘“Why, the bally thing’s alive!”
‘Coggins appeared to have a rough time of it with some of the others. For weeks he never had less than one black eye, and not only were most of our own men in a similar condition, but we left behind us wherever we went quite a crop of contusions. I knew it was no use my saying anything on my own account, for you might as well ask the wind to leave the thrashing-floor alone as for a parcel of friends to drop a good subject of chaff; but after a while I had to take pity on poor Coggins, for he sent in his resignation. I knew he had a wife and family, and that as his situation was a good one he would not leave it unless hard pressed. So I spoke to him about it. I think that his explanation had, if possible, more unconscious humour in it than his mistake. But there was pathos, too, and Coggins showed himself to be, according to his lights, a true gentleman.
‘“There’s two things, Miss, that I can’t get away from. My missis is a good ole sort, and takes care of the kids beautiful. But she believes that there ain’t in the world only one Coggins - I’m him; and as I ‘ave to be away so much on tour she gets to thinkin’ that there’s other wimmin as foolish as herself. That makes her a bit jealous; an’ if she was to ‘ear that I was every night a-tuckin’ up a beautiful young lady - savin’ your presence - in a bed, she would give me Johnny-up-the-orchard. An’ besides, Miss - I hope you’ll forgive me, but I want to do the right thing if I can - I’ve not give up carpenterin’ and took to the styge without learnin’ somethin’ of the ways of the quality. I was in the Dook o’ York’s Theatre when they had a ply what showed as how in high society if a man gets a girl into any trouble, no matter how innocent, but so as how she’s chaffed by her pals, he’s got to marry her to put it right. An’, ye see, Miss, as how bein’ married already I couldn’t do the right thing ... so I’ve resigned, and must look for another shop.”
‘‘Ow would a dead byby suit you to hear on?’ asked the Sewing Woman, with an interrogative glance round the company. ‘I know of one that was simply ‘arrowing.’ The ensuing silence was expressive.
No one said a word; all looked at the fire meditatively. The Second Low Comedian sighed. In a half-reflective, half-apologetic way she went on, as if thinking aloud rather than speaking:
‘Not that I know overmuch of bybies, anyhow, never havin’ ‘ad none of my own, though that’s partly due that I was never married. Any’ow, I never ‘ad the chances of some - married or onmarried.’
The Wardrobe Mistress, known in the Company as ‘Ma,’ here felt it incumbent on her, as the ostensible matron of the party, to say something on such a theme:
‘Well, bybies is interesting things, alive or dead. But I don’t know whether they’re the cause of most noise alive or dyin’ or dead. Seems to me that we’ve got to have it out either in screaming or sobbing or mourning, whatever you do. So, my dears, it’s just as well to take things as they come, and make the best of them.’
‘You may bet your immortal on that!’ said the Second Low Comedian. ‘Ma’s head is level!’ With the instinct of the profession, they all applauded the ‘point,’ and Ma beamed round her. Applause given to herself was a rare commodity with her.
‘All right! then we’ll drive on,’ said the bustling MC. ‘You choose your own topic, Mrs Wrigglesworth - or, rather, Miss Wrigglesworth, as I should say after your recent confession of spinsterhood.’ The Sewing Woman coughed, cleared her throat, and made those other preparations usual to the inexperienced speaker. In the pause the Tragedian’s deep voice resounded:
‘Dead babies are always cheerful. I love them on the walls of the Academy. The Christy Minstrels’ deepest bass as he trills his carol, “Cradle’s Empty; Baby’s Gone”, fills me with delight. On such a night as this, surrounded as we are by the profound manifestations of Nature’s feller forces, the theme is not uncongenial. Methinks the very snow-wreaths with which the driving tempest smites the windows of our prison-house are the beatings of dead baby fingers as they clamour to lay ice-cold touches on our hearts.’ The Company, especially the women, shuddered, and the comments were varied.
‘Lor’!’ said the Wardrobe Mistress.
‘Bones!’ - the slang name of the Tragedian - ‘never beat that in his nach. He’ll be wanting to have a play written round it,’ said the Low Comedian. The Tragedian glared and breathed hard, but said nothing. He contented himself with swallowing at a gulp the remainder of his whiskey-punch.
‘Refill the Death Goblet!’ said the Second Low Comedian in a sepulchral voice. ‘Here, Dandy’ - this to the Leading Juvenile - ‘pass the whiskey.’
The servile desire to please, habitual to her, animated the Sewing Woman to proceed on her task:
‘Well, Mr Benville Nonplusser,’ she began, ‘and Lydies and Gentlemen, which I ‘opes you’ll not expect too much from me in the litery way. Now, if it was a-sewin’ on of buttons - no matter wherever placed! An’ many a queer tale I could tell you of them if I could remember ‘em, and the lydies wouldn’t object - though blushes is becomin’ to ‘em, the dears! Or if I could do summat with a needle and thread, even in a ‘urry in the dark and the styge a-waitin’ of -’ She was interrupted by the Low Comedian, who said insinuatingly:
‘Go on, my dear. This ain’t the time nor place for one to object to anything. The ladies’ blushes will do them good, and will make us all feel young again. Besides’ - here he winked round at the Company - ‘the humour, conscious or unconscious,, offf the various situations with which your episodical narrative must be tinged will give an added force to the gruesomeness which is attendant on the defunct homunculus.’
‘You are too bad, Mr Parmentire,’ whispered the Singing Chambermaid to him. ‘If she makes us blush you will be responsible.’
‘I accept the responsibility!’ he answered gallantly to her, adding sotto voce to the Prompter: ‘And I won’t need any cut-throat insurance at Lloyd’s to protect me against that hazard.’ The Sewing Woman went on:
‘Well, as to the dead byby, which it makes me cry only to think of it, and its poor young mother growin’ colder and colder in spite of ‘ot poultices -’
Her voice was beginning to assume that nasal tone which with a woman of her class is at once a prelude to and a cause of tears. So the Manager promptly interrupted:
‘We’re simply in raptures about that baby; but as an introduction to the story, couldn’t you give us some personal reminiscence? The baby, you see, couldn’t be your own, and therefore it can only be a matter of hearsay -’
‘Lor’ bless you’re ‘eart, sir, but I ain’t ‘ad anythink to reminisce.’
‘Well, anything you’ve seen or heard in the theatre. Come now, you’ve been a long time in the business; did you never see anything heroic happen?’
‘As ‘ow, sir, ‘eroes not bein’ much in my way?’
‘Well, for instance, have you never seen a situation saved by promptness, or resource, or daring, or by the endurance of pain -’
‘Oh, yes, sir. I seen them things all in one, but it wasn’t anythink to do with the dead byby.’
‘Well, just tell us first how it was, and how resource and readiness and the endurance of pain saved the situation.’
As the Manager spoke he glanced around the Company with a meaning look; so she proceeded:
THE SLIM SYRENS
‘The first show what I ever went out with was Mr Sloper’s Company for the Society Gal, what was called “The Syrens.” You see, when the play was first done, society ‘ad long wysts and thin ‘ips and no bust to speak of, and the lydies what plyed in it original was chose according. My! but they was a skinny lot - reg’lar bags o’ bones; if ye’d a biled down the lot for stock you’d no need to ‘ave skimmed it. W’y, the tights they wore! - Speakin’ of legs as yards of pump-water ain’t in it; theirs looked as you might ‘ave rolled ‘em up on a spool. And as to their chestys - why, you might ‘ave put ‘em through the mangle and none ever the wuss - except the mangle from jerkiness, where it might ‘ave well expected to take it a bit india-rubber
y. But the ply ‘ad so long a run that the fashion got changed, and the swells began to like ‘em thick. So the gals got changed, too; some of ‘em makin’ up with ‘eavy fleshings an’ them shove-up corsets, what’d take a pinch out of your - your stummick an’ swell out your throat with it, till they come into line with the fashion. Lor’, the things I’ve seen the girls do to make theirselves look bulkier than what nature made ‘em! Any’ow, when they ‘ad run the fust companies twice round the Greats, Mr Sloper thought as ‘ow ‘e’d go one better on the fashion. “Ketch the risin’ tide” was ever ‘is mortar! So the company engyged for “The New Edition Society Gal” was corkers! They used to say in the wardrobe as ‘ow there was a twenty-stun standard, and no one would be engyged that couldn’t pass the butcher. Of course, the wardrobe of the theayter or the travelling shows was no use for “The Slim Syrens” - for that’s what they came to be kown as. We ‘ad to ‘ave a lot of tights made a purpose, and when they come ‘ome the young man ‘as brought ‘em laughed that much that he cried, and he wanted to stay an’ see ‘em put on, till I ‘unted ‘im out. I never see such tights in all my time. They was wove that bias everywhere as I felt my ‘eart sink when I thought of ‘ow we was to take up ladders in ‘em; for fat girls does a deal more in that wy than slim ones - let alone the ‘arder pullin’ to drag ‘em on. But the tights wasn’t the wust. You remember, Mrs Solomon, as ‘ow there’s a scene when Society goes in for to restore Wat-ho, and the ‘ole bilin’ dresses theirselves as shepherds. Mr Sloper didn’t want to spend no more money than he could ‘elp; so down he goes to Morris Angel’s, tykin’ me and Mrs Beilby, that was wardrobe mistress to the Slim Syrens, with ‘im. Well, ole Morris Angel trots out all the satin britches as ‘e ‘ad in stock. Of course, the most of ‘em was no use to our little lot, but we managed to pick out a few that was likely for lydies what runs large. These did for some of the crowd, and, of course, the principals got theirs made to order. They wasn’t so much fuller than Angel’s lot, arter all; for our lydies, though bulky, liked good fits, and sure enough at the dress rehearsal most of them looked as if they had been melted and poured in. Mr Sloper and the styge manager and some of the syndicate gentlemen what came to see the rehearsal had no end of fun, and the things they said, and the jokes they made, and the way that the girls run after ‘em and ‘ammered of ‘em playful, as girls does, ‘d made you laugh to have seen it. And talk of blushin’! Well, there! The most particular of the lot, and him what didn’t like the laughin’ and the jokin’, was Mr Santander, that was going to take out the Company as manager - him what they called “Smack” Santander in the green room. There was one girl what was his ladyfriend as he had put into the lead, though the other girls said as ‘ow she ‘ad no rights to be shoved on that way. But, there! Gals is mostly like that when another gal gets took up and ‘elped on. Why, the things what I’ve ‘eard and seen just because a girl was put into the front row! When she was bein’ dressed, which it was in the wardrobe, because Mr Santander was that particular that Miss Amontillado should be dressed careful, well do I remember the remark as Mrs Beilby made: “Well, Miss,” says she, “there’s no denyin’ of that you are very fine and large!” Which was gospel truth,and no concealin’ of it either in the wardrobe or on the styge, an’ most of all in the orchestra, where the gentlemen never left for their whiskey-and-soda, or their beer or cards or what not, or a smoke, till she ‘ad gone to ‘er dressin’-room, which most of ‘em got new glasses - them what didn’t use opery-glasses. Well, when dress rehearsal was over, Mr Sloper ‘e tried to be very serious, and, says he, “Lydies, you must try and be careful; remember that you carry weight!” - which that hended ‘is speech for ‘im, for he choked with laughter till the syndicate gentleman come and slapped ‘im on the back, and then laughed, too, fit to bust.
‘When we was startin’ the season Mr Santander sent for me and spoke to me about Miss Amontillado, and told me that it was as much as my plyce was worth if anything went wrong with ‘er. I told ‘im as ‘ow I’d do my best, and I took Miss Amontillado aside, and, ses I, “Miss, it’s temptin’ providence it is,” says I, “for a fine, strapping young lydy as you in britches like them,” I says. “You do kick about that free,” I says; “and satin is only satin at the best, and though the stryn is usual on it in the right direction up and down, there’s the stryn on yours all round. What if I was you I wouldn’t take no chances,” I says. Well, she laughed, and says she, “Well, you dear old geeser” - for she was a young lydy as was alwys kind and affable to her inferiors - “and what would you do if you was me?” “Well, miss,” I says, “if I was as gifted as you is, I’d have them made on webbin’ what’d ‘old, and wouldn’t show if the wust come to the wust.” She only laughed, and gave me sixpence, and, says she, “You’re a good ole sort, Sniffles” - for that’s what some of the young ones called me - “and I’ll tell Smack how well you look after me. Then perhaps he’ll raise your screw.”
‘Both Mr Santander and Miss Amontillado was anxious about the first night, and there was bets in the dressin’-room as to how she’d come off in ‘er ‘igh-kickin’ act. You’ll remember, Mrs Solomon, ‘ow the ply goes, as ‘ow to the surprise of all, the young Society gal as didn’t do nothin’ more nor a skirt-dance, sudden ups and tykes the kyke from all the perfeshionals. When Miss Amontillado was dressed for the act in her shepherd dress, I says to her, “Now miss,” I says, “do be keerful”; and Mr Santander ‘e says, “‘Ear! ‘ear!” ‘e says. “Oh, I’m all right,” she says. “Look ‘ere, Smack,” and she ups and does a split as made my ‘eart jump, it was that sudden, and up on her ‘eels agin afore you could say Jack Robinson!
‘Well, just then I ‘eard the Call-Boy a-comin’ down the passidge ‘ollerin’, “Miss Amontillado! Miss Amontillado!” “‘Ere!” she says; and as he came into the room she puts ‘er ‘ands over ‘er ‘ead and does a sal-lam that low that ‘er back ‘air nigh swept the floor. And lo and behold! as she bent I ‘ears a ‘ideous crack; and there was ‘er back up and down in two ‘alves as you’d ‘ave put a sweepin’ brush atween.
‘“Now you’ve done it, Miss,” I says; and there was she laughin’ and cryin’ all in a moment, for it weren’t no joke to ‘er to ‘ave her big scene queered like that the fust time as she done it. And there was Mr Santander a-tearin’ at ‘is ‘air - which there wasn’t none too much of it - and ‘im a-bullyin’ of ‘er dreadful, and sayin’ as ‘ow ‘e’d cancel ‘er engygement - which ‘e weren’t no gentleman, that ‘e weren’t. And all the time the Call-Boy yellin’ out, “Miss Amontillado, there’ll be a styge wyte!” and ‘im fit to bust laughin’. Impident young monkey! I knew as ‘ow if anything was to be done it must be done quick, so I whips out a big sailmaker’s needle what we sewed canvas with and the tapes on the stair-treads, an’ a lot of waxend twine as I kep’ for fixin’ reefs in the ballet shoes; for it wasn’t no child’s play as to them britches with a fine gal like that, and them so tight. I tried to get a holt of the two sides of the tear to bring ‘em together; but, lor’ bless you! the reef was that wide I couldn’t get ‘em close any’ow. The dresser that was in with me, she tried to ‘elp; but it weren’t no use. And then Mr Santander ‘e kem and ‘ad a try, but it weren’t no go. Then I tykes the Call-Boy by the ‘air of ‘is ‘ead and mykes ‘im ketch ‘old too, ‘im bein’ a bicyclist and ‘is fingers that ‘ard. Then the gas-man came to ‘elp with two sets of pinchers; but all we could do we couldn’t make them sides of that split meet.
‘We was all in despair and the time goin’ by; we could ‘ear the ‘ootin’ in front at the wayt, and the styge-manager kem tearin’ along, yellin’ and cursin’ and shoutin’ out, “What in ‘ell is wrong? Where is the bally girl? Why don’t she ‘urry up?”
‘At that very moment a hinspiration came to me. It was a hinspiration an’ nothink else, for there was that there poor gal’s success at styke, much less ‘er situation. “‘Ere,” say I, “my dear, just you lie down on the sofy on yer fyce, with yer bust on the cushing and yer toes out
with yer ‘eels in the air.” She sor in a flash what I were up to, and chucked ‘erself on the sofy, and the Call-Boy shoved a bolster under ‘er instep. My! but she bent up double that’ard that I ‘eard the webbin’ of the abominable belt as she wore go crack.
‘But, lydies and gents, the situation was saved; the roos was a pernounced success. Them two distant hedges kem together like twins a-kissin’, and afore you could say “Boo!” I ‘ad my needle and was a-sewin’ of ‘em up that firm. I was in such a ‘urry that some of the stitches took in the skin as well as the satin. But she was a plucky gal, and tho’ she ‘owled, she didn’t wriggle away. There wasn’t no time to cut the thread, and as soon as the last stitch was in she jumps up, tearin’ the stitches through her skin, and bounds out on the styge with the needle ‘anging’ be’ind. Mind you, ‘er blood was up, and she landed on to the styge like a good ‘un.
‘The roar that come from the Johnnies when they see ‘er was good to ‘ear!
‘But this is nothin’ to do with what I was goin’ to tell you about that story of the dead byby -’
‘Oh! blow the dead baby,’ said the Second Low Comedian. ‘Put it in a bottle and keep it on the shelf till called for. After an act of living valour like what you’ve told us, we don’t want anything dead.’
‘Next!’ said the MC, in the pause that ensued.
The Low Comedian being next in order had been gradually becoming more ill at ease as his own time approached; it was manifest that in the armoury of his craft was no weapon suited to deal with a necessity of extempore narration. Some of those on whom he was accustomed to sharpen his wits knew, either instinctively or by experience, of this weakness, and commenced to redress or avenge whatever they might have suffered at his hands. They began by encouragement, outwardly genuine and hearty, but with an underlying note of irony which could not fail to wound a spirit sensitive on the point of its own importance: