The Red House Mystery and Other Novels. A. A. Milne
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well, he'll have to get home somehow. His watch is only nickel and his cigarette case leather, but luckily that sort of thing doesn't weigh much with station-masters. What they want is a well-known name as a reference. Herbert is better off than I was: he can give them _my_ name. It will be idle for them to pretend that they have never heard of _me_.
XV. A BREATH OF LIFE
This is the story of a comedy which nearly became a tragedy. In its way it is rather a pathetic story.
The comedy was called "The Wooing of Winifred." It was written by an author whose name I forget; produced by the well-known and (as his press agent has often told us) popular actor-manager, Mr. Levinski; and played by (among others) that very charming young man, Prosper Vane--known locally as Alfred Briggs until he took to the stage. Prosper played the young hero, _Dick Seaton_, who was actually wooing _Winifred_. Mr. Levinski himself took the part of a middle-aged man of the world with a slight embonpoint; down in the programme as _Sir Geoffrey Throssell_, but fortunately still Mr. Levinski. His opening words, as he came on, were, "Ah, Dick, I have a note for you somewhere," which gave the audience an interval in which to welcome him, while he felt in all his pockets for the letter. One can bow quite easily while feeling in one's pockets, and it is much more natural than stopping in the middle of an important speech in order to acknowledge any cheers. The realisation of this, by a dramatist, is what is called "stagecraft." In this case the audience could tell at once that the "technique" of the author (whose name unfortunately I forget) was going to be all right.
But perhaps I had better describe the whole play as shortly as possible. The theme--as one guessed from the title, even before the curtain rose--was the wooing of _Winifred_. In the First Act _Dick_ proposed to _Winifred_ and was refused by her, not from lack of love, but for fear lest she might spoil his career, he being one of those big-hearted men with a hip-pocket to whom the open spaces of the world call loudly. Whereupon Mr. Levinski took _Winifred_ on one side and told the audience how, when he had been a young man, some good woman had refused him for a similar reason and had been miserable ever since. Accordingly in the Second Act _Winifred_ withdrew her refusal and offered to marry _Dick_, who declined to take advantage of her offer for fear that she was willing to marry him from pity rather than from love; whereupon Mr. Levinski took _Dick_ on one side and told the audience how, when _he_ had been a young man, he had refused to marry some good woman (a different one) for a similar reason, and had been broken-hearted ever afterwards. In the Third Act it really seemed as though they were coming together at last; for at the beginning of it Mr. Levinski took them both aside and told the audience a parable about a butterfly and a snap-dragon, which was both pretty and helpful, and caused several middle-aged ladies in the first and second rows of the upper circle to say, "What a nice man Mr. Levinski must be at home, dear!"--the purport of the allegory being to show that both _Dick_ and _Winifred_ were being very silly, as indeed by this time everybody but the author was aware. Unfortunately at that moment a footman entered with a telegram for _Miss Winifred_, which announced that she had been left fifty thousand pounds by a dead uncle in Australia; and although Mr. Levinski seized this fresh opportunity to tell the audience how in similar circumstances Pride, to his lasting remorse, had kept him and some good woman (a third one) apart, nevertheless _Dick_ held back once more, for fear lest he should be thought to be marrying her for her money. The curtain comes down as he says, "Good-bye.... Good-ber-eye." But there is a Fourth Act, and in the Fourth Act Mr. Levinski has a splendid time. He tells the audience two parables--one about a dahlia and a sheep, which I couldn't quite follow--and three reminiscences of life in India; he brings together finally and for ever these hesitating lovers; and, best of all, he has a magnificent love-scene of his own with a pretty widow, in which we see, for the first time in the play, how love should really be made--not boy-and-girl pretty-pretty love, but the deep emotion felt (and with occasional lapses of memory explained) by a middle-aged man with a slight embonpoint who has knocked about the world a bit and knows life. Mr. Levinski, I need hardly say, was at his best in this Act.
* * * * *
I met Prosper Vane at the club some ten days before the first night, and asked him how rehearsals were going.
"Oh, all right," he said. "But it's a rotten play. I've got such a dashed silly part."
"From what you told me," I said, "it sounded rather good."
"It's so dashed unnatural. For three whole Acts this girl and I are in love with each other, and we know we're in love with each other, and yet we simply fool about. She's a dashed pretty girl too, my boy. In real life I'd jolly soon----"
"My dear Alfred," I protested, "you're not going to fall in love with the girl you have to fall in love with on the stage? I thought actors never did that."
"They do sometimes; it's a dashed good advertisement. Anyway, it's a silly part, and I'm fed up with it."
"Yes, but do be reasonable. If _Dick_ got engaged at once to _Winifred_ what would happen to Levinski? He'd have nothing to do."
Prosper Vane grunted. As he seemed disinclined for further conversation, I left him.
* * * * *
The opening night came, and the usual distinguished and fashionable audience (including myself) such as habitually attends Mr. Levinski's first nights, settled down to enjoy itself. Two Acts went well. At the end of each Mr. Levinski came before the curtain and bowed to us, and we had the honour of clapping him loud and long. Then the Third Act began....
Now this is how the Third Act ends:
_Exit_ Sir Geoffrey.
_Winifred (breaking the silence)._ Dick, you heard what he said. Don't let this silly money come between us. I have told you I love you, dear. Won't you--won't you speak to me?
_Dick._ Winifred, I---- _(He gets up and walks round the room, his brow knotted, his right fist occasionally striking his left palm. Finally, he comes to a stand in front of her.)_ Winifred, I---- _(He raises his arms slowly at right angles to his body and lets them fall heavily down again.)_ I can't. _(In a low hoarse voice)_ I--can't! _(He stands for a moment with bent head; then with a jerk he pulls himself together.)_ Good-bye! _(His hands go out to her, but he draws them back as if frightened to touch her. Nobly.)_ Good-ber-eye.
_He squares his shoulders and stands looking at the audience with his chin in the air; then with a shrug of utter despair, which would bring tears into the eyes of any young thing in the pit, he turns and with bent head walks slowly out._
_CURTAIN._
That is how the Third Act ends. I went to the dress rehearsal, and so I know.
How the accident happened I do not know. I suppose Prosper was nervous. I am sure he was very much in love. Anyhow, this is how, on that famous first night, the Third Act ended:
_Exit_ Sir Geoffrey.
_Winifred (breaking the silence)._ Dick, you heard what he said. Don't let this silly money come between us. I have told you I love you, dear. Won't you--won't you speak to me?
_Dick (jumping up)._ Winifred I---- _(with a great gulp)_ I LOVE YOU!!!
Whereupon he picked her up in his arms and carried her triumphantly off the stage ... and after a little natural hesitation the curtain came down.
* * * * *
Behind the scenes all was consternation. Mr. Levinski (absolutely furious) had a hasty consultation with the author (also furious), in the course of which they both saw that the Fourth Act as written was now an impossibility. Poor Prosper, who had almost immediately recovered his sanity, tremblingly suggested that Mr. Levinski should announce that, owing to the sudden illness of Mr. Vane the Fourth Act could not be given. Mr. Levinski was kind enough to consider this suggestion not entirely stupid;