by Hugh Ealpole
Of course, everyone had seen that I was responsible. ‘Just like Humphrey,’ I heard someone say. I was now in that parlous state, known to all of us in nightmares, when every step is perilous. Move where I would, I should assist some catastrophe. Oddly enough, I believe that everyone else felt something of the same discomfort. It promised to be one of those parties upon which unhappy hostesses look back, with dismay, for the rest of their lives. At the end of that very first game there was trouble because a fat little boy, clinging to the seat of the last chair, protested that he had won and not the thin boy with the rabbit teeth who was sitting on the chair-edge as though he were Casabianca. Other people took sides. A little girl said it was a ‘shame’. We then played Blind Man’s Buff, a dangerous game, because it degenerates so readily into horse-play. It did so now, and a big boy pushed a little girl over, and she started loudly to cry.
Yes, things were very wrong, and I saw Lady Adderley consulting with her husband. She was asking him, I expect, whether it would not be wise to hurry things forward. I was myself so completely neglected that I might have been a little lonely ghost, invisible to all the world. I spoke to no one. No one spoke to me. There are no miseries in after life to compare with these miseries of childhood.
Then the door opened. A maid stood there and I heard her say quite clearly:
‘My lady—the conjurer . . .’
It happened that I was standing near to Lady Adderley, and I could mark very easily her expression. Startled it was! Plainly she had invited no conjurer, nor, had she had one up her sleeve, would it have been such a man as now stood waiting in the doorway. He was tall and thin, with a long pale face, a very pronounced hooked nose, and black hair that stood up stiffly on end. He was dressed entirely in black, and over his shoulders there hung a short black cape. In one hand he carried a black soft hat with a high crown, and in the other a square red leather box which he held by a bright brass handle. He stood there, very quietly, his long legs close together, not moving at all, as thin and straight and still as a mast waiting for its flag.
Lady Adderley had invited no conjurer—that was plain. She was astonished as though she had seen a witch with a broomstick. She intended, I’ve no doubt, to protest, to ask who it was had come thus uninvited. She took a step forward, then she stopped. Was it something in the conjurer’s eyes, politely bent upon hers, his still, assured attitude, his black cloak, even his red leather box?
Or was it simply that she felt that her party was threatened with failure, that something must be done to save it? Or was it just that she could not help herself?
In any case, she suddenly turned to her husband and I heard her say: ‘This is the surprise I had for you, dear.’ Then she went up to the conjurer and invited him to come forward.
I cannot be sure, but I fancy that from the moment of the conjurer’s entrance the spirit of the party changed. It may have been that we were all delighted to have a surprise—a conjurer was the very last thing that we had expected! It may have been that we ourselves were beginning to be frightened at the spirit of discontent and bad temper that was springing up among us.
In any case, everybody, laughing, chattering, in the very best of tempers, settled down, forming a big circle, the older people on chairs and most of the children cross-legged on the floor.
The conjurer, who seemed to be a solemn man, for he did not smile, walked forward and took his place on a long, thick, purple rug in front of the windows. Lady Adderley placed a table in front of him, and on this he laid his red leather box. Then—so suddenly as to make everyone jump—from somewhere within his cloak, it seemed, he produced a long wand, coloured crimson with a silver tip at the end of it. Then he spoke to us, and his voice was soft, and every word as clear as a bell.
He told us not to be astonished at anything that we saw, that there were a great many things more wonderful in this world than we would ever suppose, that we must never say that anything wasn’t possible. For, he said, smiling for the first time (I, staring at him, felt as though I had seen that smile before), things became impossible to us as we grew older only because we closed our minds up as tight as his red leather box. Of course, if we would shut ourselves up inside a red leather box, that was our own fault—but he hoped that we’d be wiser than that. We all laughed at that, and thought within ourselves that of course we would be!
Then he waved his wand and began his tricks. At first they were quite ordinary. He brought rolls of coloured paper from his black hat, a flower in a pot from under a table, an egg out of his left ear; and a pack of cards disappeared into thin air. I heard Ambrose, who was sitting near to me, murmur: ‘He’s only an ordinary conjurer, after all.’ Then he paused, came forward nearer to us, and looked at us all with his piercing black eyes.
‘You’ve seen those things before, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Well, now you’re going to see something new.’
A little shiver of excitement ran through all of us.
‘But first,’ he said, ‘I must have a boy to help me.’
Several boys sprang up—the kind of boys who, all their lives afterwards, would be springing forward on just such occasions.
But he shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I want the right kind of boy.’ He looked round, searching through the company. ‘That’s the boy I want!’ he said, and he nodded his head in my direction.
Even then I didn’t think that it was myself he wanted! I was packed away behind a fat boy and between two fat girls. The fat boy thought that it was he! With puffs of pleasure he rose to his feet.
‘No,’ said the conjurer. ‘That’s the boy I’m going to have’— and with his red wand he pointed directly at me.
How astonished everybody was! That was the first triumph of my young life. Humphrey Porter, whom no one considered anything at all; Humphrey Porter, who was quite certain to make a mess of it! Poor conjurer! He would soon see how grave his mistake! But here was a curious thing. I, who was terrified of doing anything before others, on this occasion knew no fear. I can see myself now, climbing through the other children, and then, before their mocking derisive eyes, taking my place quietly beside the little table, waiting for my orders.
‘Thank you!’ said the conjurer gravely. ‘That will do very nicely.’
Then for the first time he opened the red box and took from it a number of things. There were some small china saucers, a number of little coloured boxes, a tiny pistol, some children’s bricks, three small coloured flags, red, white and blue, a mouse-trap, a silver bell, a toy trumpet. Over all these things he spread a very large white handkerchief. The ground of this handkerchief was white, but I saw that it was covered with pictures of little blue ships all in full sail.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I want you all to understand that this is a very exceptional boy. An ordinary boy wouldn’t do in the least. I’m very lucky to have found such a boy.’
(At this point I should have hung my head. But I didn’t. I stared in front of me and smiled at my mother, who smiled back at me.)
‘What is your name, boy?’ he asked me.
‘Humphrey,’ I answered, and for some reason or other was quite sure that he knew without my telling him.
‘Now show all your friends what you can do!’ he said.
And what didn’t I do in the next half-hour? I was handed the toy trumpet and, quite confidently, played beautiful tunes upon it—I who had never played a tune in my life! At his command I whistled like a bird, nay, like a whole forest of birds. ‘That’s a thrush,’ he said, nodding his head contentedly. ‘Now a blackbird. And now—what about the nightingale?’ I pursed my lips together and the room was filled with the song of the nightingale.
‘Now take these little boxes, Humphrey,’ he said, ‘and throw them into the air.’
I threw them into the air, and behold, there they stayed, suspended, shining in all their colours under the glittering silver lights. (‘I know how you did that,’ Ambrose said confidently afterwards. ‘There were invisible wi
res coming out of the red box.’ Well, if he knew, it was more than I did.)
I took up, under his instructions, the little silver bell and it rang a perfect carillon of chimes. I took the mouse-trap and, walking backwards and forwards, holding it in front of the audience, drew out of it one small white mouse after another. They ran up my sleeve, over my shoulders, then disappeared into the mouse-trap again. I waved the coloured flags and they grew larger and larger until they seemed to reach to the ceiling.
‘Now, Humphrey,’ he said, putting his hand on my shoulder (why was that touch so very familiar?), ‘tell that lady over there what she has in her little white bag.’
‘That lady,’ I said, without hesitation, ‘has in her bag a small white handkerchief, a little looking-glass with a blue border, a pink needle-case, and a small bottle of smelling-salts with a crystal stopper.’
How everyone gasped, as well they might! The lady was asked to open her bag, and there were the articles I had named. (I need scarcely say that I was as greatly astonished as anyone!)
‘And that boy,’ he said, pointing to Ambrose, who was standing up with his mouth wide open. ‘What has he got in his trouser-pocket? You may as well tell us in French,’ he added casually.
So, in perfect French, I told Ambrose that he was carrying in his pocket a lump of toffee, a knife with a broken blade, three coppers and a half-crown, and a catapult. (Strange things to carry in your Eton suit, but then Ambrose was very acquisitive, and I didn’t know until later that Ambrose had stolen the knife from his brother and had been forbidden by his father to have a catapult. My revelations disturbed Ambrose considerably.)
So it went on, and with every moment my glory was growing greater and greater! I could feel it mounting about me! It was as though I could see into the heart of everyone and tell how proud my father and mother were, how pleased Sarah was, and how on every side they were thinking: ‘Well, I never! I’d no idea the little Porter boy had so much in him!’
At last came the final splendour. The conjurer raised the handkerchief with the little blue ships and told me to lift my arm. I did so. What happened then? How do I know, at this distance of time? Is any mystery ever fully revealed?
But it seemed to me that the conjurer grew to a tremendous height, that the room was filled with delicious sounds, that I was aware that Christmas was better than any other time, and that no Christmas was as good as this Christmas, that high above our heads hung a splendid star, and that the conjurer, whispering from his great height into my ear, promised me that all my wishes should be fulfilled, that if only I were patient and quiet and unselfish enough, I should be happy for ever after. Nonsense, of course. No conjurer can bring off such tricks. But I know, from the later accounts that everyone gave, that we all, in our different ways, felt for a moment the enchantment, were confident of our happiness, knew ourselves to be transformed.
‘And that, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, bowing, ‘is the end of my little entertainment.’
How everyone clapped, how they laughed, how they chattered! And while they were talking he was gone. When we turned round to find him there was no sign of him—gone with his hat and his red leather box and his red wand.
I remained, of course, to enjoy my triumph. I’ll say no more about that. I smiled and I laughed, and I said that it was nothing to do with me, and I ate the largest supper of my life.
‘And to think,’ said Mother on the way home, ‘that you’ve taken us all in, Humphrey.’
‘It’s always the quiet ones,’ said my father, ‘who come out strong on an occasion.’
A few days later I went and had tea with Mr Claribel. I talked nineteen to the dozen, telling him every detail of that wonderful evening—and once again, as so often before, felt that he knew it all before I told him.
Then came one of the most amazing things! He sneezed, and out of his pocket took his handkerchief. It was a white handkerchief covered with little blue ships in full sail.
‘But that—!’ I cried.
He tweaked my ear.
‘When you go home tonight, Humphrey,’ he said, ‘look at that red book I once gave you. If you study page seventy-three, learn it by heart and practise a little, you will become a very good conjurer. It’s quite easy.’
But I don’t know. Many a day did I study page seventy-three. All to no purpose. I cannot even make a rabbit jump out of a hat.
It needs, I expect, more than a book.
The White Cat
VERY STRANGE things happen to very ordinary people. This is an account of one of them. It would have been difficult, perhaps, to find in the whole of America a more ordinary man than Mr Thornton Busk. He did not himself think that he was anything at all unusual, and yet he had always had a very pretty pride in himself and considered, as most of us do, that it was quite essential for the happy continuance of the history of the world that he should live and be well fed and have a happy and prosperous time.
He came to Hollywood from New York partly because of the climate, partly because he thought he might do a little writing for the films, partly because a very lovely girl whom he knew had gone to try her own fortune there. He’d been in Hollywood five years and it may be said of him that during that time he was happy rather than successful. He had a very cheerful nature. He was good-looking in a quite ordinary way, dark and slim and always correctly dressed. He was useful to women who did not know what to do with their time, and he never had an original idea about anything.
He discovered to his mild surprise that he was not needed by anybody to write for the films, and soon had, as everyone has in Hollywood, a personal story about how near he’d come to achieving this, and by what an unlucky chance he’d just missed that, and how so-and-so, the director of one of the best films of the decade, was his very best friend, and would have given him so much to do if it hadn’t happened that there were so many people already engaged in doing it.
He did not really feel himself ill-used. There are so many parties of so many kinds in Hollywood that you can go out somewhere all the time wherever you are. And there is always a chance that someone quite world-famous will be sitting next to you at the Vendome or dancing quite close to you at the Trocadero. His five years were entertaining and even exciting, and it seemed to him that he had plenty of friends. At the end of the five years what he hadn’t got was plenty of money. He discovered with a shock that his capital was almost gone and that although millions of dollars were rolling about the Hollywood streets, none of them seemed to roll in his direction.
It was then that he began to think seriously of a charming English lady, Mrs Grace Ferguson. Mrs Ferguson was a rich widow who had a pretty house on Rodeo Drive, and entertained a great deal in a quiet, ladylike fashion. She was one of the English who, coming to California on a short visit, are entrapped by the sun and never again escape. Her husband, a kind elderly man, who was on the London Stock Exchange, had been dead some ten years. She was quite alone in the world. Except for her large white cat, Penelope, she had apparently no near friends. She had, of course, plenty of acquaintances, and as it is the practice of every American to be charming at the actual moment of contact, all her acquaintances seemed to her to be friends. It is quite possible for an English man or woman to make very real and beautiful friendships in America, lasting ones and sincere, but it is often very difficult for the English to distinguish clearly between friendships and acquaintances. The dividing line is so very clear in their own more cautious country.
There were horrible times when Mrs Ferguson felt very lonely indeed, and wondered if she had any friends. At such horrible moments she would feel a great wave of homesickness for the long white moors of Northumberland, the rocky bays of Cornwall, and the deep violet-scented lanes of Devonshire. She found that it was then that she wrote long letters to friends in England, saying that she would very shortly be home, recalling the many happy days they’d spent together, and hoping a little wistfully that they had not all entirely forgotten her. Then quickly again would
come the delightful excitements of her social world. A concert in the Bowl under the stars (the seats were very damp and it was necessary to wear quite heavy Arctic clothing), an eventful première at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, a lovely trip in somebody’s yacht to Catalina, a most interesting lecture given by a yogi from India. It seemed to her on such occasions that she was surrounded by friends, warm-hearted, enchanted to see her, hating to be parted from her, ready to do anything in the world to make her happy.
Thornton Busk was one of these. A very, very charming man, always smiling, always at your service, full of jokes, a little flirtatious (but not to any dangerous extent), good-hearted and unselfish. She liked him very much indeed. She told him that he would always be welcome at any of her parties. When Thornton began to consider her seriously, he was surprised at himself for not having considered her seriously before. She had, he understood, so much money that she really did not know what to do with it all, and in these days that was most unusual. Moreover, she was not like so many ladies with money, vulgar and unprepossessing. She had the rather aesthetic charm of the delicate English lady. Someone with whom you’d never consider being passionate. Someone with whom you would never be bored.
But when he began to consider her more seriously, he found that passion was not so difficult to conceive. It was unquestioned that she had never been awakened. He knew, he had been told it often enough, how stolid and unimaginative were most elderly English husbands. There had been no scandal about her in Hollywood. She liked men, but kept them at a distance. It would be amusing to awaken her. He flattered himself that it would not really be difficult. Here, indeed, was a splendid way out of all his troubles. He began to pay her very definite court. He noticed that as soon as he began to take a deeper interest in Grace Ferguson, her house and its surroundings also became more personally alive to him.