GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

“Where would you wish me to put these things, sir?” she said with a patient air, after looking in vain for a vacant space on the pianoforte.

“What things? What do you mean by bringing them? Who asked for them?

“You did, Mr Jack. Perhaps a you would like to deny it to this gentleman’s face, who heard you give the order.”

“Oh!” said Jack, discomfited. “Charles: will you take some coffee whilst I am dressing. Put the tray on the floor if you can’t find room for it elsewhere.”

Mrs Simpson immediately placed it at Charlie’s feet.

“Now,” said Jack, looking malignantly at her, “be so good as to find my coat for me; and in future, when I leave it in a particular place, don’t take it away from there.”

“Yes, sir. And where did you leave it last, if I may make bold to ask?”

“I left it on that chair,” said Jack violently. “Do you see? On that chair.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Simpson, with open scorn. “You gave it out to me yesterday to brush; and a nice job I have had with it: it took a whole bottle of benzine to fetch out the stains. It’s upstairs in your room; and I beg you will be more careful with it in future, or else send it to the dyers to be cleaned instead of to me. Shall I bring it to you?”

“No. Go to the — go to the kitchen; and hold your tongue. Charlie: I shall be back presently, my boy, if you will wait. And take some coffee. Put the tray anywhere. Confound that — that — that — that woman.” He left the room then, and after some time reappeared in a clean shirt and a comparatively respectable black frock coat.

“Where does she live?” he said.

“In the Marylebone Road. Her athomes are great fun. Her sisters don’t consider it proper for a young unmarried woman to give athomes on her own hook; and so they never go. I believe they would cut her altogether, only they can’t afford to, because she gives them a new dress occasionally. It will be a regular swagger for me to go in with you. Next to being a celebrity oneself, the best thing is to know a celebrity.”

Jack only grunted, and allowed Charlie to talk until they arrived at the house in the Marylebone Road. The door was opened by a girl in a neat dress of dark green, with a miniature mob-cap on her head.

“I feel half inclined to ask her for a programme, and tip her sixpence,” whispered Charlie, as they followed her upstairs. “We may consider that she is conducting us to our stalls. Mr Jack and Mr Charles Sutherland,” he added aloud to the girl as they reached the landing.

Mr Sutherland and Mr Charles Sutherland,” she answered, coldly correcting him.

Jack, meanwhile had advanced to where Madge stood. She wore a dress of pale blue velvet, made in Venetian style imitated from old Paul Veronese. Round her neck was a threefold string of amber beads, and she was shod with slippers of the same hue and material as her dress. Her complexion, skilfully put on, did not disgust Charlie, but rather inspired him with a gentle regret that it was too good to be genuine. The arrangement of the room was as remarkable as the costume of the hostess. The folding doors had been removed, and the partition built into an arch with a white pillar at each side. A curtain of silvery plush was gathered to one of side of this arch. The walls were painted a delicate sheeny grey, and the carpet resembled a piece of thick whitey-brown paper. The chairs of unvarnished wood, had rush seats, or else cushions of dull straw color or cinnamon. In compliance with a freak of fashion which prevailed just then, there were no less than eight lamps distributed about the apartments. These lamps had monstrous stems of pottery ware, gnarled and uncouth in design. Most of them represented masses of rock with strings of ivy leaves clinging to them. The ceiling was of a light maize color.

Magdalen, surprised by the announcement of Mr Sutherland, was looking towards the door for him over the head of Jack, than whom she was nearly a head taller.

“How d’ye do?” he said, startling her with his brassy voice.

“My dear master,” she exclaimed, in the pure, distinct tone to which she owed much of her success on the stage. “So you have come to me at last.”

“Aye, I have come at last,” he said, with a suspicious look. “I forgot all about you; but I was put in mind of your invitation by Charles. where’s Charles?”

Charles was behind him, waiting to be received.

“I am deeply grateful to you,” said Magdalen, pressing his hand. Charles, rather embarrassed than gratified, replied inarticulately; vouched for the health of his family; and retreated into the crowd.

“I had ceased to hope that we should ever meet again,” she said, turning again to Jack. “I have sent you box after box that you might see your old pupil in her best parts; but when the nights came, the boxes were empty always.”

“I intended to go — I should have gone. But somehow I forgot the time, or lost the tickets, or something. My landlady mislays things of that sort; or very likely she burns them.”

“Poor Mrs Simpson! How is she?”

“Alive, and mischievous, and long tongued as ever. I must leave that place. I can stand her no longer. Her slovenliness, her stupidity, and her disregard of truth are beyond belief.”

“Dear, dear! I am very sorry to hear that, Mr. Jack.” Magdalen turned her eyes upon him with an expression of earnest sympathy which had cost her much study to perfect. Jack, who seldom recollected that the subject of Mrs Simpson’s failings was not so serious to the rest of the world as to himself, thought Magdalen’s concern by no means overstrained, and was about to enlarge on his domestic discomfort, when the servant announced “Mr Brailsford.”

Jack slipped away, and his old enemy advanced, as sprucely dressed as ever, but a little more uncertain in his movements. Magdalen kissed him with graceful respect, as she would have kissed an actor engaged to impersonate her father for so many pounds a week. When he passed on and mingled with the crowd like any other visitor, she forgot him, and looked round for Jack. But he, in spite of his attempt to avoid Mr Brailsford, had just come face to face with him in a remote corner whither chance had led them both. Jack at once asked him how he did.

“How de do,” said the old gentleman with nervous haste. “Glad to — I am sure.” Here he found his eyeglass, and was able to distinguish Jack’s features.

“Sir,” said Jack: “I am an ill-mannered man on occasion; but perhaps you will overlook that and allow me to claim your acquaintance.”

“Sir,” replied Brailsford, tremulously clasping his proffered hand: “I have always honored and admired men of genius, and protested against the infamous oppression to which the world subjects them. You may count upon me always.”

“There was a time,” said Jack, with a glance at the maize-colored ceiling, “when neither of us would have believed that we should come to make two in a crowd of fashionable celebrities sitting round her footstool.”

“She has made a proud position for herself, certainly. Thanks, as she always acknowledges, above all things to your guidance.”

“Humph,” said Jack doubtfully. “I taught her to make the best of such vowels as there are left in our spoken language; but her furniture and her receptions are her own idea.”

“They are the most ridiculous absurdities in London,” whispered Brailsford with sudden warmth. “To you, sir, I express my opinion without reserve. I come here because my presence may give a certain tone — a sanction — you understand me?” Jack nodded. “But I do not approve of such entertainments. I am at a loss to comprehend how the actress can so far forget the lady. This room is not respectable, Mr Jack: it is an outrage on taste and sensibility. However, it is not my choice: it is hers; and de gustibus non est disputandum. You will excuse my quoting my old school books. I never did so, sir, in my youth, when every fool’s mouth was full of scraps of Latin.”