He went over and looked at what she had done. It was a bit of a mess, as she had said, but Henry knew enough about painting to realise that neither he nor Rhoda had been wasting time.
“It’s marvellous!” he exclaimed. “I’d give anything to be able to do that!”
“Your skill as a physician?” asked Rhoda, smiling at him. “No, Henry, you wouldn’t.”
He smiled thoughtfully in return. “I see what you mean,” he said, “and of course you’re right: I wouldn’t. Each to his own trade.”
17
CHRISTMAS WAS approaching rapidly and so was the Christmas Entertainment at Drumburly School. Rhoda had looked for signs of nervous apprehension in Duggie, who was taking the part of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, but Duggie seemed calm and confident.
“It was a job learning the words but I know them now,” was all that Duggie would say upon the subject.
Rhoda had promised to go, and to tell the truth she was looking forward to the entertainment with pleasure. This fact, when she realised it, surprised her a good deal. When she had lived in London she had often gone to an entertainment with less pleasurable anticipation. She could not help smiling to think what some of her friends would say if they could know her feelings: the sophisticated Charmian, or Buttons with his velvet jacket and long hair! How they would laugh if they knew she was setting forth to see The Merchant of Venice acted in a school gymnasium by village children and expecting to enjoy herself enormously!
Mamie was going, and of course Lizzie, for she was in the proud position of parent to Shylock. Mrs. Couper’s Alice was playing Nerissa so naturally Mrs. Couper would be there too.
“You’ll get a good laugh anyhow,” promised James as he saw Rhoda off in the little car which had replaced Blink.
“But I mustn’t laugh,” objected Rhoda. “That would be frightful. I think on the whole it would be better not to sit beside Mamie.”
“Think of something sad,” said James smiling. He stood back and waved as she drove off.
The gymnasium was a large hall with a stage at one end; it was beautifully decorated with flags and greenery. Rhoda was early but already the seats were more than half full and more people were streaming in every moment. As she looked round the hall it seemed to her that everybody in Drumburly had come to the entertainment, it was a social occasion of the first magnitude, and she had made a sartorial error to come in a plain coat and skirt with a plain felt hat; she should have put on her smartest garments. Here was Lady Steele in a black cloth coat and a hat with feathers, there was the butcher’s wife in a hat that looked like a flower garden; Mrs. Ogylvie Smith was dressed up to the nines as also was Miss Heddle. Rhoda saw Mrs. Flockhart (Flockie’s sister-in-law) and Mrs. Couper and Lizzie … and there were quite a number of men as well, including Adam Forrester. In fact practically every person in Drumburly that Rhoda knew was here and of course very many more that she had never seen in her life.
Mamie had kept the seat beside her for Rhoda. “I had the greatest trouble to keep it for you,” she said. “Several people came and sat down beside me but I was quite firm with them about it.”
Naturally Rhoda had to take the seat. “But we mustn’t laugh,” she said.
“Laugh?” Mamie exclaimed. “It isn’t funny. It’s the one about that horrid old man who wants his pound of flesh.”
“Yes,” agreed Rhoda. Already she could feel bubbles of laughter rising inside her. This is going to be awful, she thought.
“I hope Alice will be all right,” continued Mamie in anxious tones. “Mrs. Couper says Alice knows it thoroughly but of course she’s very shy and she’s rather apt to cry for no reason at all. If she forgets what she has to say and bursts into tears it will be dreadful.”
“Yes,” agreed Rhoda. She realised that the honour of Mureth was at stake, and she could not help wondering whether it would be a worse disgrace to Mureth if she were to burst out laughing or Alice were to burst into tears.
The entertainment opened with Christmas hymns in which the whole school took part. They were fine-looking children with rosy faces and well-brushed hair and there were so many of them that they were packed like sardines upon the little stage, but in spite of this they sang exceedingly well and with tremendous vigour.
When this part of the programme was over Mr. Greig, the head master, came forward and announced that “Scenes from The Merchant of Venice” would now follow. He explained that as it would have been somewhat ambitious to present the play in its entirety he had chosen those portions which would best display the remarkable talents of his pupils. He, himself, would fill the gaps between the scenes with explanations of what was happening, so that members of the audience who were unacquainted with this magnificent example of the work of the Bard of Avon would find no difficulty in following the story.
Everybody clapped enthusiastically.
Mr. Greig bowed and waited for silence before announcing that the first scene to be presented was a room in Portia’s mansion. He then stepped back and, catching his heel in the edge of the carpet which was part of the furnishing of Portia’s boudoir, he stumbled and almost fell. Fortunately however he was an agile man and with a bound which would have done credit to an acrobat he managed to save himself and avert catastrophe.
The curtain descended and all the lights went out.
“It’s a good thing he didn’t fall,” whispered a woman who was sitting behind Rhoda.
Her companion agreed. “My heart was in my mouth,” she added solemnly.
Several minutes passed, minutes of darkness and silence, and then without any warning the curtain rose and disclosed the back view of a young man in plus fours and a pink shirt with braces over his shoulders. He was standing in the middle of the stage holding a flower-pot in his arms. For a moment he seemed unaware of his predicament and then something seemed to warn him that he was the cynosure of several hundred eyes.
He looked round. “Jings!” he exclaimed and dived for the wings, flower-pot and all.
“That’s Tommy Brown,” whispered Mamie. “He’s such a nice boy. I expect he’s been helping them to arrange the scenery.”
After the departure of Tommy Brown the stage was vacant for quite a long time and Rhoda had a feeling that the contretemps had upset the actors and that they were being soothed and encouraged and reassured — but perhaps she was wrong, for the actors, when at last they made their appearance, seemed undismayed.
Portia bounded onto the stage followed by the cringing Nerissa. “By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this grreat wurrld,” announced Portia in loud and cheerful tones. The play was on.
It was a very interesting performance, so Rhoda thought, and as she watched the well-known story unfold she wondered what Mr. William Shakespeare would have thought if he were a member of the audience. Would he have been annoyed at the liberties which had been taken with his work by Mr. Greig? Mr. Greig had taken a good many liberties; for, not only had he left out scenes and strung the remainder together with explanations which sounded a little like a running commentary on a football match, but he had tampered with the script as well, cutting down any particularly long and difficult speeches and inserting lines of his own devising in their place. It was quite cleverly done, however; the story hung together and was intelligible, so perhaps Mr. Shakespeare would not have taken exception to the presentation.
The dresses and the scenery were amazing and except for the somewhat unfortunate start there were no long pauses nor curtain troubles. The acting was uneven; some of the children were exceedingly good and obviously enjoying themselves thoroughly, others were inconceivably bad and seemed to be suffering severely, but even the worst was word-perfect and required no prompting. Portia, a healthy young woman with quantities of curly auburn hair, rollicked through her part with tremendous gusto and swept the stolid Bassanio off his feet. Nerissa, who in private life was Alice Couper, trotted round after her mistress like Mary’s little lamb and neither forgot her lines nor burst int
o floods of tears. Jessica was delightful, she was natural and unaffected and had a pretty voice … but the honours of the evening were undoubtedly Shylock’s. The bent figure in the shabby black gown and the snow-white wig was an extraordinarily convincing personality. Duggie did not shout like the other children, his voice was low but clearly audible and he played his part in an unusually sympathetic way. Here was no cringing coward or ranting villain but a dignified and pathetic old man, a man with mistaken ideals but justified in his own eyes for his vindictiveness.
Parts of the play were excruciatingly funny and Rhoda had difficulty in stifling her amusement, but now and again there was a magical feeling in the air and for a few moments you were lifted out of your surroundings and transported to mediaeval Venice by the master’s hand. You were lifted and transported and then suddenly you came down with a thump and found yourself sitting in a crowded hall watching a group of children wading doggedly through a play whose inner meaning they could never understand. There was magic in the scene between Lorenzo and Jessica; they were so young, so grave; they were really beautiful. Sitting upon the traditional bank they made shy love to one another with the moonlight shining upon them. Will would have liked this, thought Rhoda as she listened to the flow of lovely words …
And then suddenly the magic spell was broken and here was Portia again, as full of bounce as a tennis ball and evidently no whit fatigued by her efforts at the trial.
“That light we see is burrning in my hall.
“How far that little candle throws his beams!
“So shines a good deed in a naughty wurrld,” declared Portia archly.
“When the moon shone we did not see the candle,” bleated her little lamb and the inane remark sounded more inane than ever.
18
THE PLAY was over, speeches and applause had followed and players and audience had joined in the singing of “God Save the King.” Mamie and Rhoda were making their way slowly towards the door surrounded by the polite and unhurrying crowd. It was plain from the conversation which was going on all round them that the play had made a great impression upon the Drumburlyians.
“It was real exciting,” one woman declared. “When I heard it was to be Shakespeare this year I was in two minds about coming, but I’m glad I came.”
“Aye, it was as good as the pictures,” agreed her companion.
“Ishbel made the whole thing,” said another. “She’s got wonderful spirit. I liked yon bit in the trial when she started sorting the Jew.”
“Did you like that bit?” enquired another voice in surprise. “I didn’t, then. I was vexed for the wee Jew, they were all up against him.”
By this time Mamie and Rhoda had emerged into the passage and here they encountered Mrs. Ogylvie Smith.
“My dear!” she exclaimed seizing Mamie’s arm. “Was it not a gorgeous performance? For me, I would rather see those children than a circus and I look forward to Mr. Greig’s entertainment from one year to the next. Now you know everyone, Mamie, so you must tell me who they are. First of all the zestful Portia who would have made a so much better Carmen, who is she?”
Hemmed into a draughty corner of the passage by the slowly moving crowd the two ladies discussed The Merchant of Venice — and Rhoda listened. She was surprised to discover that they both knew a great deal more about the play than herself. Mamie’s somewhat fatuous remark at the beginning of the performance had led Rhoda to believe that she knew very little about it, but now it appeared that she knew it well. Most people, Rhoda had found, pretended to more knowledge than they possessed; not so Mamie. Perhaps this was due to the same strange feeling of diffidence which prevented her from using the right word even when she knew it.
The conversation was prolonged. Most of the audience had gone and a chill wind blew in at the open door and whistled round their ankles, but neither of Rhoda’s companions seemed to notice the draught, they were too interested in what they were saying. Mrs. Ogylvie Smith let fall the information that she had seen Ellen Terry in the role of Portia when she was a child and had been bitterly disappointed because Portia was not young and beautiful and romantic as Portia should be.
“I, for one, would almost rather see it played with zest and gaiety as it was today,” added the extraordinary woman. “You know, my dear Mamie, it is the mediocre that I find ennuyant The good and the bad entertain me vastly.”
“You must have enjoyed yourself this afternoon,” Mamie declared.
“And this is the woman who pretends to be stupid!” exclaimed Mrs. Ogylvie Smith turning to Rhoda as she spoke. “There was good and bad today but no mediocre at all, so I enjoyed myself … but now I am not enjoying myself; if we stand here much longer I shall turn into an icicle. We will go and have tea at the Steele Arms. I am to meet Henry there and he will want to know all about it. You will come, Mamie, and perhaps your daughter-in-law as well?”
Mamie accepted the invitation and they went out to find their cars.
“Did you hear what she said?” whispered Mamie to Rhoda. “Of course it was just a slip of the tongue. She knows you aren’t, really. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It seemed quite natural to me,” Rhoda assured her.
“Oh, well,” said Mamie somewhat incoherently. “I’m glad you don’t mind. Of course it’s lovely for me to — to think people think like that, and if she hadn’t been thinking like that it wouldn’t have slipped out, would it? But Caroline might be hurt if she knew — I mean she’s James’s mother, isn’t she — so perhaps I ought to — to say something — or do you think that would make too much of it?”
“I should leave it,” replied Rhoda, smiling at her earnestness. “Caroline will never know and nobody will be a penny the worse.”
The Steele Arms Hotel was run by Mrs. Simpson; she had been there for years and knew Mamie well, so she welcomed the three ladies with delight and set a table for them before a roaring fire.
“This is very pleasant,” declared Mrs. Ogylvie Smith throwing off her furs. “We shall be comfortable now and the good Mrs. Simpson will give us of her best … and here is Henry to make our party complete! Henry, my dear, you have missed something worth seeing.”
“I couldn’t get away from Glasgow any sooner,” said Henry as he smiled at Mamie and Rhoda and kissed his mother affectionately. “You must tell me about it instead. Did you all disgrace yourselves by laughing at the wrong moment?”
“There were moments when it was difficult not to,” Rhoda admitted. “But there were moments of magic as well.”
“How did our friend Duggie sustain the part of Shylock?”
“You know that boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Ogylvie Smith. “He did not sustain the part of Shylock, he was Shylock. He made us weep for Shylock and his sins. So dignified, he was, standing with his hands folded inside his sleeves and saying: ‘Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that. You take my house when you do take the prop that doth sustain my house; you take my life when you do take the means whereby I live!’”
There was a short silence.
“Yes, he understood what he was saying,” said Mamie thoughtfully.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” said Henry. “Strange that a child can understand that feeling — the feeling that life is useless without the prop that doth sustain the house. How does Duggie know what it feels like to be bereft suddenly of all that makes life worth while?”
It was obvious from the way he spoke that Henry knew what it felt like.
“Duggie can’t know,” said Mamie.
“He could not have said it so beautifully if he had not experienced it,” objected Mrs. Ogylvie Smith.
“People can, you know,” said her son, stirring his tea thoughtfully. “Certain people have the gift of understanding an emotion they haven’t experienced. The gift is compounded of sympathy and imagination and a dash of something very mysterious which some people call genius.”
“He is a genius, this Duggie?”
Henry looked across the table at Rhoda, waiting fo
r her to reply.
“I don’t like the term,” said Rhoda frankly. “It’s too loosely used nowadays when everybody who has the smallest talent or is out of the ordinary in any way is immediately hailed as a genius; but when you come down to brass tacks what are you to call the Mysterious Something? Duggie has it, I’m sure of that. It shows itself in his painting.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “I’m sure of it, too.”
“We have heard a great deal about this Duggie, but still we do not know who he is,” complained Mrs. Ogylvie Smith.
“You’re the only person who doesn’t know, Mother,” returned Henry with a smile. “This Duggie is the son of Mamie’s cook, he is also the devoted chela of Rhoda. He draws her back view when she isn’t looking because he says her face is too beautiful. Nobody could do it, he says.”
“He has discernment,” nodded Mrs. Ogylvie Smith. “I think I should like to meet this son of Mamie’s cook.”
“It’s strange,” said Henry reflectively. “I always have a feeling that Duggie is like somebody, but I can’t think who it is.”
“You do not know?” asked Mrs. Ogylvie Smith in surprised accents. “I can tell you that quite easily. The moment I saw Shylock I realised that he was like me.”
Her three companions laughed.
“You are very rude indeed,” said Mrs. Ogylvie Smith when she could make herself heard. “I cannot imagine why people should laugh when I speak no more than the truth. When I said I could not walk as far as Boscath, Henry laughed, and now when I say I am like Shylock you are all very much amused. But I am kind enough to make allowances, for none of you has seen me when I have just washed my hair — naturally I do not appear in public in that condition — but I can assure you that when I have washed my hair and it hangs about my face, shaggy and white, I bear a very strong resemblance to Shylock.”
Her companions laughed again and laughed so heartily that she was obliged to laugh with them.
Mrs. Ogylvie Smith was in tremendous form and it was with regret that at last Mamie rose and broke up the party.
Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3) Page 12