THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 251
work, and the Gladstone bags were of new and strange shapes, looking like animals whose bones wanted to burst the skin, he would have had to make up brown paper parcels, out of which books, brushes, and photograph frames would fall as he carried them down the stair. But the box was coming, and Glengarry smoked, and chuckled at the surprise he would give his things directly.
Glengarry was in this pleasing frame of mind, as exultant as if a message had come asking him to cut off a magistrate's leg, when the bell rang. He tried not to look proud, but listened eagerly to make sure that his landlady had gone to the door. His landlady finished her supper and put her children to bed, and then remembered that the bell had been ringing for some time. Soon afterwards she informed Glengarry that two men wanted to see him, also that they were using language. Glengarry waved his hand grandly, and told her to show them in.
66 I suppose you have brought the box ? " Glengarry said.
They said they had, and they wanted to know what they were to do with it.
252 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD.
" Bring it in here/' said Glengarry.
" We can't get it up the stair."
" What ? It can't be heavy with nothing in it."
" No, but it's too big. If you want it up here you'll have to widen the passage."
Glengarry's pipe went out at this, and he said falteringly that he would come down and have a look at the box. When he saw it in all its magnitude, the box staggered him.
" Perhaps it could be got into your room by the window," one of the men said ; " but you would have to take the window out first."
" And you would need a crane," said the other man, " to lift it up."
Glengarry measured the passage, and saw that the leviathan box could never enter it.
" Can you leave the box here all night ? " he asked.
" You would be run in if we did that," the men said.
There was, therefore, nothing for it but to bribe them to take the box away again.
"Bring it back early in the morning," Glengarry said, " before there is much traffic. It might frighten the horses."
THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WOELD. 253
" They would take it for a steam tram/' said the men.
That night Glengarry stole into Cumber- land Street with a string, and measured the passage that led to his new lodgings. The passage was wide enough to admit the box.
On the following evening two other medi- cals, Smith (seventh year) and Flint (sixth year), called at Cumberland Street as a deputa- tion from the medical faculty, who wanted to know about the box. They were shown into Glengarry's new abode, and Glengarry wel- comed them nervously.
" It looks like a good room for working in," said Smith, who always thinks he could work in other people's rooms, " but where is the box ? "
" You don't mean to say that you don't see it? " asked Glengarry.
Smith and Flint looked round the room, and their eyes rested on what they had taken for a monster cupboard.
" Is it in there ? " asked Flint.
" In there ! " cried Glengarry, indignantly ; " that is it."
What ? "
" The box."
254 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD.
" I took it for a bedroom/' said Flint.
" It is more like a cabmen's shelter," said Smith.
When the visitors had come to, they wanted to know how the box was brought from Fred- erick Street, but at first Glengarry refused to gratify their curiosity. He was in need of sympathy, however, and gradually they got the story out of him.
Though the box had arrived at Frederick Street early in the morning, a crowd soon gathered round it, owing to an absurd rumor that it was to be erected as a house for the band in Princes Street Gardens. Glengarry had to carry all his things down to the box, and pack it there, and then the story went out that it was a furniture van. When the boys realized that the " show," as they termed it, belonged to Glen- garry, they studied him as he packed, and for a time their gaze was reverent. Becoming used to the idea, however, they took to jumping over the box (and into it when the owner was on his way up or downstairs) ; to show that they ap- preciated the magnitude of his labors they gave three ringing cheers every time he ap- peared with another load.
THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 255
Glengarry in his excitement was so foolish as to think that the box could be conveyed to Cumberland Street on a cab, but the cabmen whom he hailed gave him a piece of their mind. At last a lorry was got, and the box was raised upon it by six men, amid loud applause from the boys, who insisted on following the lorry to Cumberland Street, sadly and solemnly, as if they were walking in a funeral procession. Men and boys joined the crowd, as the fame of the box spread, and when it arrived at its destination all Cumberland Street was in a com- motion.
The box was got into the passage and there it stood.
" Turn it on its side," cried Glengarry, but it would not turn.
" Pull it back," was his next suggestion, but it would not pull back.
The six men sat down on the steps and wiped their brows, and the boys danced with honest glee. Lodgers going out found their way blocked by the box, and had to climb over it. A lady who had been leaving tracts had to go up the stairs again and sit in some kitchen for an hour.
256 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD.
The policeman came and said :
" Come, you know, this won't do/' and then strolled away.
Glengarry's new landlady apologized to all the people on the stairs for having allowed Glengarry to have the back parlor. She also warned Glengarry that if the box was brought up it would probably kill the people below.
A man on the opposite side of the street opened his window and shouted directions.
" Break the lid or the door of the thing," he cried, " carry up its contents in your arms."
Unfortunately the box was lying on its lid, and so the suggestion was not practical. At last the six men disappeared and came back with an axe. With this, one made a way into the box, and the boys shouted gleefully once more as they heard the axe smashing Glen- garry's pictures.
All forenoon Glengarry was carrying up arm- fuls of books, boots, and clothing, and then the box itself was carried up. Glengarry grudged the money he had to pay those six men until the bill for the box came in, when he saw that the men had been cheap in compari- son.
THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 257
The box and Glengarry are in Cumberland Street still. Glengarry would have tried new rooms long ago if he could have left the box behind him, but the landlady refuses to accept it. The room is utterly unsuitable for working in, Glengarry not being able to work where there is no wind, and, co nsequently, he does not mean to go in for his final this year. His friends have suggested that the box might prove use- ful at an exhibition, not as an exhibit, but as a stall. Another suggestion is that the Senatus could put the Brewster statue in it at the time of the rectorial election.
17
THE COMING DRAMATIST.
SHAKESPEARE has three plays on the London stage at present, and several companies in the " provinces," where Sheridan, too, is holding up his head. This is even better than Mr. Pettitt, and has set those who write about the theatre a-talking. The manager who produces Shakes- pearean pieces gets a certificate of character from the critics, and theatre-goers are given to under- stand that he is a public benefactor. He has "the best interests of the stage at heart," and you ought to clap your hands when you look at him. So they say, but it is only a manner of talking. The manager who invites the pop- ulace to see himself as Hamlet in reduced circum- stances, or his wife in Lady Teazle's dresses, is usually a greater bore than the comic person with red nose for trade-mark, or the melodra- matic hero in a prologue and five acts. Even
260 THE COMING DRAMATIST.
when Shakespeare is efficiently presented, there is no reason why we should exult over the fact, as if each of the players merited a medal for doing
the best for himself; nor need we at once begin to argue that the prospects of the theatre are brightening. The old playwrights are pop- ular with actors because of reasons that are quite creditable, but not specially inspiring. It is pleasant to feel that you are looked upon as some one to honor the moment you produce a Shakespearean play, and " Fame " being what the actor murmurs to himself as he walks along the streets, he naturally likes to appear in the parts that give him his best opportunity. Ham- let is his favorite character when he is his own manager, because it is the longest part in Shakespeare. Another weighty reason is that you can play the old dramatists for nothing. Thus, though one is always glad to see actors ambitiou^ of great parts, it is not necessary to extol them otherwise than for their acting. Mr. Irving has, no doubt, done more for the stage than any other living man, but only in the way of showing that Shakespeare in magnificent upholstery need not spell bankruptcy. By far the healthiest sign of the stage would be the
THE COMING DRAMATIST. 261
appearance of new playwrights of distinction, and Mr. Irving seems to have given up look- ing for them. Obviously they are hard to find, but the actor or manager who discovers even one will have done better for the stage than those who revise Shakespeare to the end of their days.
That we should have no living playwrights to speak of is assuredly remarkable, for the demand is great : the rewards are such as to dwarf the honors attainable by novelists, poets, or essayists, and the pecuniary remuneration for a single successful play means a bank account forever. Miss Gubbins, author of the famous novel Her Fourth Husband, produces a silly play at a matinee, and every prominent daily paper in the country has half a column about it next morning. Mr. Wigley adapts the latest Ambiguous Comic piece, and sells the rights for five or ten thousand pounds. After that he is interviewed whithersoever his triumphal progress takes him, and London correspondents telegraph to Australia that he sometimes wears a white waistcoat. In short, the newspaper editors, who know what they are about, think that theatrical intelligence must be given in full,
262 THE COMING DRAMATIST.
though important books have to wait for notice until Parliament rises. Such interest in the drama ought to produce a dramatist, but we have none of parts to be compared with, say, our eight or ten leading novelists. Mr. Gilbert is a wit when he is set to music, but his latest effort, Br anting Jiame Hall, was dull and trivial, and only proved that a proper playwright is not necessarily a playwright proper. Mr. Pinero has always been unsuccessful when he was in the least ambitious, farce being what suits him best, and his " dramas " or " comedies " being ever a curious mixture of comedy, farce, and " serious interest." Mr. Grundy is a smaUer Pinero, and the melodramatists are to be for- gotten as soon as possible. We do not nowa- days even have the secret of burlesque, for our burlesques burlesque nothing, and are only music-hall entertainments, in which many ladies are the scenery, while agile gentlemen play the fool at twenty or fifty pounds a week. At this moment London is looking forward to seeing a comedian from the music halls turning Lancelot into ridicule. A few comic songs from the vulgar palaces that are now so fashionable in London will probably make this latest " bur-
THE COMING DRAMATIST. 263
lesque" run for hundreds of nights. In Edin- burgh the interest Londoners have in their music halls is not easily realized, though it is one of the worst signs of the times. The other night there was a disturbance in a London music hall over a comic political song, and since then in- numerable " leaders " have solemnly discussed the question of politics in places of amusement. As a matter of fact, actors know nothing about the questions of the day. Not one in fifty records his vote in a Parliamentary election. Their politics are that Mr. Gladstone is the G. 0. M., and that Lord Kandolph Churchill curls his mustache.
In speaking of the theater of to-day, never- theless, a pessimistic tone is uncalled for. The stage has been swept of many of its objection- able features, and the standard of acting has been immeasurably raised. If we have no one theater where the performance is of such uniform excellence as at one famous Paris play- house, we have more actors and actresses of in- telligence than any other country in the world. When the dramatist appears, scores of com- panies will be found capable of acting his pieces satisfactorily. Nor do we fear that he would
264 THE COMING DRAMATIST.
be unappreciated. Trash is often a success on the stage, thanks to the talent of one or two of the players ; but the average audience rec- ognizes good work, and would rejoice to have the opportunity of commending it. All that is wanted is the dramatist. One would think that there are novelists now with us who could write plays that would be literary as well as effective. Some of them have tried and failed, but ob- viously because they did not set about it in the proper way. Plays and novels require quite different construction, but the story-writer who is dramatic could become sufficiently theatrical by serving a short apprenticeship to the stage. There are such prizes to pluck for those who can stand on tiptoe that the absence of an out- standing dramatist is as surprising as it is dis- appointing.
IT.
As they were my friends, I don't care to say how it came about that I had this strange and, I believe, unique experience. They considered it a practical joke, though it nearly unhinged my reason. Suffice it that last Wednesday, when I called on them at their new house, I was taken upstairs and shown into a large room with a pictorial wall-paper. There was a pop- gun on the table and a horse with three legs on the floor. In a moment it flashed through my mind that I must be in a nursery. I started back, and then, with a sinking at the heart, I heard the key turn in the lock. From the corner came a strange uncanny moan. Slowly I forced my head round and looked, and a lump rose in my throat, and I realized that I was alone with It.
I cannot say how long I stood there motion-
266 IT.
less. As soon as I came to myself I realized that my only chance was to keep quiet. I tried to think. The probability was 'that they were not far away, and if they heard nothing for a quarter of an hour or so, they might open the door and let me out. So I stood still, with my eyes riveted on the thing where It lay. It did not cry out again, and I hoped against hope that It had not seen me. As I became accus- tomed to the room I heard It breathing quite like a human being. This reassured me to some extent, for I saw that It must be asleep. The question was, Might not the sleep be dis- turbed at any moment, and in that case, what should I do ? I remembered the story of the man who met a wild beast in the jungle and subjugated it by the power of the human eye. I thought I would try that. All the time I kept glaring at Its lair (for I could not distinguish itself), and the two things mixed themselves up in my mind till I thought I was trying the ex- periment at that moment. Next it struck me that perhaps the whole thing was a mistake. The servant had merely shown me into the wrong room. Yes ; but why had the door been locked? After all, was I sure that it was
IT. 267
locked ? I crept closer to the door, and with my eyes still fixed on the corner, put my hand gently oh, so gently ! on the handle. Softly I turned it round. I felt like a burglar. The door would not open. Losing all self-control, I shook it ; and then again came that unnatural cry. I stood as if turned to stone, still clutch- ing the door-handle, lest it should squeak if I let it go. Then I listened for the breathing. In a few moments I heard it. Before it had horrified me ; now it was like sweet music, and I resumed breathing myself. I kept close to the wall, ready for anything; and then I had a strange notion. As It was asleep, why should I not creep forward and have a look at it ? I yielded to this impulse.
Of course I had often seen Them before, but always with some responsible person present, and never such a young one. I thought it would be done up in clothes, but no, it lay loose, and without much on. I saw its hands and arms, and it had hair. It was sound asleep to all appearances, but there was a queer smile upon its face that I did not like. It crossed my mind that It might be only shamming, so I looked away and then turned
268 IT.
sharply round to catch it. The smile was still there, but It moved one of its hands in a suspicious way. The more I looked, the more uncomfortable did that smile make me. There was something saturnine about it, and it kept it up too long. I felt in my pocket hurriedly for my watch, in case It should wake ; but, with my usual ill-luck, I had left it at the watchmaker's. If It had been older I should not have minded so much, for I would have kept on asking what its name was. But this was such a very young one that it could not even have a name yet. Presently I began to feel that It was lying too quietly. It is not Their nature to be quiet for any length of time, and, for aught I knew, this one might be ill. I believe I should have felt relieved if It had cried out again. After thinking it over for some time I touched It, to see if It would move. It drew up one leg and pushed out a hand. Then I bit my lips at my folly, for there was no saying what It might do next. I got behind the curtain, and watched it anxiously through a chink. Except that the smile be- came wickeder than ever, nothing happened. I was wondering whether I should not risk
IT. 269
pinching It, so as to make it scream and bring somebody, when I heard an awful sound. Though I am only twenty, I have had consid- erable experience of life, and I can safely say that I never heard such a chuckle. It had wakened up and was laughing.
I gazed at It from behind the curtain : its eyes were wide open, and you could see quite well that it was reflecting what it ought to do next. As long as it did not come out I felt safe, for it could not see me. Something funny seemed to strike it, and it laughed heartily. After a time It tried to sit up. Fort- unately its head was so heavy that it always lost its balance just as it seemed on the point of succeeding. When It saw that It could not rise, It reflected again, and then all of a sudden It put its fist into its mouth. I gazed in horror ; soon only the wrist was to be seen, and I saw that it would choke in another minute. Just for a second I thought that I would let It do as It liked. Then I cried out, " Don't do that ! " and came out from behind the curtain. Slowly It removed its fist, and there we were, looking at each other.
Barrie, J M - Tillyloss Scandal Page 15