A Wretched Imitation

by Barry Pain

A WRETCHED IMITATION

By BARRY PAIN

IT is not true—though the statement was made by certain unprincipled persons in Rockham—that the Rockham Amateur Dramatic Society constituted one of the most horrible features of the Great War. Persons who have not been invited to join a society are only too often inclined to a malicious criticism of it.

Undoubtedly the R.A.D.S. owed its origin in part to the War. The Chater family, which was directly responsible for its inception, always said that its main object was to provide cheerful and interesting entertainments for convalescent soldiers. It may be admitted that a caustic, though celebrated, physician said that, in his opinion, any man who was strong enough to stand the Rockham Amateurs was strong enough to return to the trenches. Great doctors are not necessarily sound dramatic critics.

Even before the War George Chater and his two sisters had organised many dramatic entertainments on behalf of various deserving charities. They were all three most modest. George said that he was no use, but that, of course, his sister Evelyn was remarkable. Evelyn said she loved acting, but did not pretend to have the real gift of her sister Myra. Myra said that she hated to hear her acting praised, as she was only too well aware of her shortcomings, and that those who had not seen George in "Richelieu" had not realised what acting might be. The Chaters might with justice have been called a united family.

It may be that their talents were inherited from their parents. Papa well remembered, and not infrequently repeated, that he had been told in his youth that he was a born comedian. But he had given up his birthright and become a wool-broker, and had prospered sufficiently. No evidence of his ability as a comedian, other than that statement quoted above, ever transpired nowadays. Mamma, in her younger days, had at a school performance impersonated Joan of Arc. In this impersonation she won great applause, demonstrated how well the prosaic biscuit-tin of to-day may be contrived to simulate the armour of the romantic past, and did more yet. It was in the garden afterwards that Papa had, to use his own phrase, "first dared to hope." A complete suit of biscuit-tin is warm, and the garden, as Papa pointed out, was cool and refreshing, so they strayed out together. And then—oh, tut, tut! Mr. Chater still retained a large panel photograph, somewhat faded, of Mrs. Chater as Joan of Arc. It was not publicly exhibited, because some people are so narrow-minded.

But though Papa and the former Joan of Arc no longer appeared on the stage, they took a warm and sympathetic interest in the efforts of their talented family. Mrs. Chater was most useful in charge of the wardrobes. Papa had once acted as prompter, and in that office had been distinctly audible to everybody in the house except the performers, but he had higher work than this. It was his special prerogative, when a performance was given in the cause of charity, to write a cheque for that sum which represented the excess of expenditure over receipts. If you are giving "The Merchant of Venice" in aid of the debt on the church organ, it makes the church organ a little peevish to find that, in consequence, its indebtedness has been increased by two pounds fifteen shillings and sevenpence. Of course, the expenses of such an entertainment do tend to exceed the original estimate. As Evelyn Chater always said, more particularly when selecting her own costume, if a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well. Unseen and unheard, Papa and his cheque-book were still useful and salutary.

With the War came the definite formation of the Rockham Amateur Dramatic Society. There was a clear call for it. Papa may have thought that a succulent subscription list would lessen his own financial responsibilities. He certainly said that he would do his best to put the R.A.D.S. on a business basis. The younger Chaters wanted useful people to play subsidiary parts; so did the useful people. Enthusiasm was prevalent. For one reason or another, many men could not go to the recruiting office, or went and were refused, but every man and woman wanted to do something, but on no account to mind his or her own business. A society which existed in order to amuse and interest wounded soldiers in hospital had a good chance. There was a rush for membership. The Committee was able to exercise a selective judgment, and applicants of insufficient social calibre were told that the list was full. Among the rejected was Bunting—a vulgar little beast who worked for The Rockham Star—and shortly afterwards The Rockham Star had that paragraph, nasty and not at all funny, about dramatic societies who gave entertainments at hospitals because they wanted an audience that could not escape or hit back. "And that settled the question of advertising in The Rockham Star," said George Chater firmly.

The Committee had been chosen with care and tact. The President had been selected chiefly because of his title, but in part because his lordship was always unable to attend the meetings. We need say no more of him. Then came that elder Chater whom, in our affectionate way, we have called Papa. His business was to act as Chairman in his lordship's absence, to put things on a business basis, and to rule that any proposal which he disliked was out of order. Then came Mr. Peters, who represented what might be called the anti-Chater interest, Mrs. Apsley-Carter, who has done so much good work, and Gerald Druce, who did secretarial duties, and had stipulated—mark this—that he should not be called upon to take part in any performance. It was a small committee. As it included Mr. Peters, it was quite impartial; and as the Chater interest always had the preponderating vote, it was quite satisfactory. Young Druce always supported the Chater interest, and in this connection it may be added that Myra Chater was a very pretty and charming girl.

Druce was a dissatisfied young man. He had experience and training, and he had expected a commission. If he could not get that, he was quite ready for the lowest rank. He was ready for anything if only he might be allowed to get out; but a fatherly and restraining power had put its hand on his shoulder and kept him back. He had been told that his business, which had nothing to do with munitions, and at first sight nothing to do with the War, was of great importance. He was admitted to be an expert in that business. He was to keep on with it. In that way he would be best serving his country. He was not to be glorious; he was merely to be useful. He submitted, and became an exasperated Special Constable.

But it was not exasperation which made him the secretary of the R.A.D.S. That was merely Myra. She possessed the rather lovable weakness of a greater belief in those to whom she was attached than the facts would have warranted. If Gerald had expressed the slightest wish to play "Hamlet," she would at once have felt certain that he would be an ideal Hamlet. She would have gone further than that. After the performance she would have maintained that he was actually "It." As it was, she was in doubt about his refusal to take part in any performance.

"I should never be able to do it," said Gerald. "I've never done anything of the kind in my life."

"That only shows that you might be most awfully good," said Myra fervently.

 

II.

That splendid institution the Rockham Amateur Dramatic Society had to learn—let us be quite candid about it—from adversity. It learned slowly through months of ambitious failures, but it did learn ultimately. Having once grasped that the audiences wanted funny sketches, sentimental songs, and dances by pretty girls, the Chater family stepped down from the legitimate pedestal and obliged. George Chater and his two sisters were by nature, aided by tuition, admirable dancers. Evelyn was a handsome woman on Junoesque lines, and Myra was as aforesaid. Mrs. Apsley-Carter was physically less attractive, but she was a diligent and conscientious pianist. The dramatic talent generally lapsed from "Richelieu" into screaming farce, and the successes of the London halls were, with certain inevitable limitations, reproduced in Rockham.

Gerald Druce, having been credibly informed that the famous comedian Mark Masters had a new song which was quite top-hole, obligingly spent an evening in London to see if that same song would not suit Mr. Peters; and, as Myra observed, very good it was of him.

He made his report to George Chater on the following evening, and—merely to illustrate his meaning—sang the chorus and repeated some of the patter.

"That settles it," said George darkly.

"Settles what?"

"What you did then was the very best bit of imitation I ever heard in my life." (Yes, the Chaters did tend rather to enthusiasm.) "Peters won't have that song. You'll give it yourself as an imitation of Mark Masters at the next show we have."

"Couldn't possibly, my dear chap."

"Couldn't? You must. It will simply make them scream. Why, of course. You do that thing of a man with a soda-water bottle, and sawing a bit off a plank, and catching a bee in his handkerchief."

"Oh, but everybody does those things! They're parlour tricks; you couldn't have them on the stage."

"Old stuff, I admit, but always popular. I'll put that on the programme at once: 'Some Imitations—Gerald Druce.' Thanks very much!"

"Now, I made it a most definite condition——"

"I know you did, but in war every man must do what he can. You can imitate Mark Masters—there's not a shadow of a doubt about that. Besides, you've got a clear fortnight to work the thing up."

It was in vain that Gerald Druce rebelled. Even Myra turned against him. She heard the imitation, and said that Gerald had got the man to the very life—that it was absolutely like him. He would, perhaps, have attached less importance to this criticism if he had known that Myra had never seen and never heard Mark Masters; but he did not know, and nobody told him. He gave way before the presence of Chaterian enthusiasm and insistence.

But his days were darkened. He knew what he knew. He had no delusions. He knew his own business thoroughly. He knew that Myra was the sweetest creature in the world, and that it was madness to expect that she would care for a worm who was not even allowed to wear khaki. But he also knew that he had no real talent for mimicry, and that he had engaged himself to imitate a bee, a saw, Sir Herbert Tree, a soda-water bottle, and Mark Masters in public—to wit, at Rockham Town Hall. The thought of it made him perspire. The thought of Mark Masters made him perspire particularly. Bees and saws are more or less within the scope of any man, and in the case of Sir Herbert Tree he would be merely imitating an imitation, which is comparatively easy. But his study of Mark Masters had to be a direct study.

Yes, he worked hard at it. He did his very best. For six nights he heard Mark Masters, observed closely, and took notes. For six days he practised assiduously. And then once more he tried it on George Chater.

"Capital!" said George, with less than his usual enthusiasm. "Not quite so good as it was that first time you did it, but still good enough."

Then did Gerald make one last effort, even as the last effort of a drowning man, to get his name expunged from that programme. It failed, and he sank deep down into the utmost depths of gloom and depression. He was going to make an unspeakable fool of himself. Myra would witness the contemptible failure. And after that he would die.

Meanwhile, as some distraction for the mind, he went to play golf—a game at which he excelled, and there deliverance in an unexpected form came to him.

He had chanced upon a sad-eyed old man who was a new member and also new at the game. Gerald was good nature itself. He took that poor old man in hand and gave him an afternoon of the very best coaching he ever received. And the old man was not ungrateful.

"You've given me a totally different outlook on the game," he said. "I shall go ahead after this. And it has really been uncommonly good of you to a stranger. All I can say is that if I can ever do you any service in return, I shall be jolly glad to do it. You may have heard my name—Mark Masters."

Gerald Druce jumped. "Mark Masters?" he said breathlessly.

"Yes. On the stage. Supposed to be funny, you know."

"Then, if you're willing to do it, you can simply save my life."

"How?"

"I've promised to give an imitation of you at three o'clock on the afternoon of the fourteenth. Don't ask how I came to do such a fool thing. I hardly know myself. I was over-persuaded. It's an amateur show for a charity."

"Have you got it pretty like?"

"Not within a million miles, and never shall. I have no gift in that direction at all—absolutely none. The consequence is that I am going to make a number-one fool of myself, and that in the presence of—er—of somebody whose opinion I value. You can save me."

"Well, I can lend you the props and give you a few hints, but——"

"Better than that—far, far better than that. Listen."

Gerald unfolded the dark and sinful plot that had occurred to him. A gleam of humour came into the wearied eyes of Mark Masters.

"I'll do it," he said. "Imitation of myself by me. For once I shall be able to enjoy my own work."

*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*

The performance went better, on the whole, than had been expected. The impersonation of Mark Masters called forth but little applause from the audience, but the subsequent imitations provoked laughter and enthusiasm.

"That bee was a masterpiece," said Mr. Peters to Gerald afterwards. "But if you don't mind my speaking plainly, I should cut out the Mark Masters next time. You've not quite got his staccato way of speaking."

The Rockham Star was again nasty. "Mr. Gerald Druce cannot look like Mark Masters, or act like him, or sing like him, or speak like him. So he gave an imitation of Mark Masters. These amateurs! He had better stick to his imitation of a man sawing wood—no novelty, but passably well done."

The Rockham Herald, which, by the way, received the advertisements, said: "A new-comer, Mr. Gerald Druce, proved himself to be an admirable mimic, and his impersonation of Sir Herbert Tree fairly convulsed the audience. His imitation of Mark Masters was, perhaps, a thought over-coloured and exaggerated, and had not quite the same success."

George Chater said that the thing which beat him altogether was the extraordinary rapidity with which Gerald had divested himself of his Mark Masters make-up.

The janitor of the town hall put a sovereign on the table when he got home, and told his wife that he had earned it honestly, but had promised to say nothing about it to anybody, and would keep his word. If a gent was let in by the back way to Mr. Druce's dressing-room, where was the harm? However, his tongue was tied. Even supposing a trick was played on an audience, and a man was supposed to have done what the other bloke really done, as long as there was no complaint, it was not the duty of a janitor to interfere. At the same time he had sworn his solemn oath not to say a word about it to a living soul, and he should abide by that.

The janitor's wife commended him for bringing home the sovereign intact, not being aware that another sovereign was retained in her husband's waistcoat pocket for personal expenses of a festive nature.

The Vicar thanked Papa Chater most warmly for the very enjoyable entertainment provided by the R.A.D.S. "But," he added, "there is one point. In that song supposed to be sung by some London comedian there was just the faintest possible shade of—you know what I mean. We elder men must keep our eyes wide open for anything that even tends—— Don't you think so, Mr. Chater?" And Mr. Chater said he did.

Myra says that, when she is married, she shall simply make Gerald do that imitation of the man with the soda-water bottle all day, because it is absolutely the funniest thing she ever saw. But she never says a word about Mark Masters. This looks rather as if she would enjoy, and deserve, her husband's fullest confidence, which is quite as it should be.

And Mark Masters himself, a week or so later, in the small hours of the morning, at about the third whisky and soda, became philosophical and dogmatic.

"We don't know ourselves, my dear boy; we are strangers to ourselves. Great and amazing thought, but it's the truth, and I've proved it. I once tried to do a skit on myself, taking off my own little peculiarities. Luckily, it was in the provinces before a tame audience. In London it would have got the 'bird' for a certainty. Rotten! I felt it was rotten while I was doing it, and I couldn't make it any better. Strangers to ourselves! Amazing! I'll trouble you for the whisky, Bill."

 

Copyright, 1915, by Barry Pain, in the United States of America.