Extricating Young Gussie
She sprang it on me before breakfast. There in seven wordsyou have a complete character sketch of my Aunt Agatha. Icould go on indefinitely about brutality and lack of considera-tion. I merely say that she routed me out of bed to listen to herpainful story somewhere in the small hours. It can’t have beenhalf past eleven when Jeeves, my man, woke me out of thedreamless and broke the news: ‘Mrs Gregson to see you, sir.’ I thought she must be walking in her sleep, but I crawledout of bed and got into a dressing-gown. I knew Aunt Agathawell enough to know that, if she had come to see me, she wasgoing to see me. That’s the sort of woman she is. She was sitting bolt upright in a chair, staring into space.When I came in she looked at me in that darn critical way thatalways makes me feel as if I had gelatine where my spine oughtto be. Aunt Agatha is one of those strong-minded women. Ishould think Queen Elizabeth must have been something likeher. She bosses her husband, Spencer Gregson, a battered littlechappie on the Stock Exchange. She bosses my cousin, GussieMannering-Phipps. She bosses her sister-in-law, Gussie’smother. And, worst of all, she bosses me. She has an eye like a man-eating fish, and she has got moral suasion down to a fine point.I dare say there are fellows in the world – men of bloodand iron, don’t you know, and all that sort of thing – whom shecouldn’t intimidate; but if you’re a chappie like me, fond of aquiet life, you simply curl into a ball when you see her coming,and hope for the best. My experience is that when Aunt Agathawants you to do a thing you do it, or else you find yourselfwondering why those fellows in the olden days made such afuss when they had trouble with the Spanish Inquisition. ‘Halloa, Aunt Agatha!’ I said. ‘Bertie,’ she said, ‘you look a sight. You look perfectly dis-sipated.’ I was feeling like a badly wrapped brown-paper parcel. I’mnever at my best in the early morning. I said so. ‘Early morning! I had breakfast three hours ago, and havebeen walking in the park ever since, trying to compose mythoughts.’ If I ever breakfasted at half past eight I should walk on theEmbankment, trying to end it all in a watery grave.
‘I am extremely worried, Bertie. That is why I have come toyou.’ And then I saw she was going to start something, and Ibleated weakly to Jeeves to bring me tea. But she had begunbefore I could get it. ‘What are your immediate plans, Bertie?’ ‘Well, I rather thought of tottering out for a bite of lunchlater on, and then possibly staggering round to the club, andafter that, if I felt strong enough, I might trickle off to WaltonHeath for a round of golf.’ ‘I am not interested in your totterings and tricklings. Imean, have you any important engagements in the next weekor so?’ I scented danger. ‘Rather,’ I said. ‘Heaps! Millions! Bookedsolid!’ ‘What are they?’ ‘I – er – well, I don’t quite know.’ ‘I thought as much. You have no engagements. Very well,then, I want you to start immediately for America.’ ‘America!’
Do not lose sight of the fact that all this was taking place onan empty stomach, shortly after the rising of the lark. ‘Yes, America. I suppose even you have heard of America?’ ‘But why America?’ ‘Because that is where your Cousin Gussie is. He is in NewYork, and I can’t get at him.’ ‘What’s Gussie been doing?’ ‘Gussie is making a perfect idiot of himself.’ To one who knew young Gussie as well as I did, the wordsopened up a wide field for speculation. ‘In what way?’ ‘He has lost his head over a creature.’ On past performances this rang true. Ever since he arrivedat man’s estate Gussie had been losing his head over creatures.He’s that sort of chap. But, as the creatures never seemed tolose their heads over him, it had never amounted to much.
‘I imagine you know perfectly well why Gussie went toAmerica, Bertie. You know how wickedly extravagant your Un-cle Cuthbert was.’ She alluded to Gussie’s governor, the late head of the fam-ily, and I am bound to say she spoke the truth. Nobody wasfonder of old Uncle Cuthbert than I was, but everybody knowsthat, where money was concerned, he was the most completechump in the annals of the nation. He had an expensive thirst.He never backed a horse that didn’t get housemaid’s knee inthe middle of the race. He had a system of beating the bank atMonte Carlo which used to make the administration hang outthe bunting and ring the joy-bells when he was sighted in theoffing. Take him for all in all, dear old Uncle Cuthbert was as will-ing a spender as ever called the family lawyer a bloodsuckingvampire because he wouldn’t let Uncle Cuthbert cut down thetimber to raise another thousand. ‘He left your Aunt Julia very little money for a woman inher position. Beechwood requires a great deal of keeping up,and poor dear Spencer, though he does his best to help, has notunlimited resources. It was clearly understood why Gussiewent to America. He is not clever, but he is very good-looking,and, though he has no title, the Mannering-Phippses are one ofthe best and oldest families in England. He had some excellentletters of introduction, and when he wrote home to say that hehad met the most charming and beautiful girl in the world I feltquite happy. He continued to rave about her for several mails,and then this morning a letter has come from him in which hesays, quite casually as a sort of afterthought, that he knows weare broadminded enough not to think any the worse of her be-cause she is on the vaudeville stage.’ ‘Oh, I say!’ ‘It was like a thunderbolt. The girl’s name, it seems, is RayDenison, and according to Gussie she does something which hedescribes as a single on the big time. What this degraded per-formance may be I have not the least notion. As a further rec-ommendation he states that she lifted them out of their seats atMosenstein’s last week. Who she may be, and how or why, andwho or what Mr Mosenstein may be, I cannot tell you.’ ‘By Jove,’ I said, ‘it’s like a sort of thingummybob, isn’t it?A sort of fate, what?’ ‘I fail to understand you.’ ‘Well, Aunt Julia, you know, don’t you know? Heredity,and so forth. What’s bred in the bone will come out in thewash, and all that kind of thing, you know.’ ‘Don’t be absurd, Bertie.’
That was all very well, but it was a coincidence for all that.Nobody ever mentions it, and the family have been trying toforget it for twenty-five years, but it’s a known fact that myAunt Julia, Gussie’s mother, was a vaudeville artist once, and avery good one, too, I’m told. She was playing in pantomime atDrury Lane when Uncle Cuthbert saw her first. It was beforemy time, of course, and long before I was old enough to takenotice the family had made the best of it, and Aunt Agatha hadpulled up her socks and put in a lot of educative work, and witha microscope you couldn’t tell Aunt Julia from a genuine dyed-in-the-wool aristocrat. Women adapt themselves so quickly!I have a pal who married Daisy Trimble of the Gaiety, andwhen I meet her now I feel like walking out of her presencebackwards. But there the thing was, and you couldn’t get awayfrom it. Gussie had vaudeville blood in him, and it looked as ifhe were reverting to type, or whatever they call it. ‘By Jove,’ I said, for I am interested in this heredity stuff,‘perhaps the thing is going to be a regular family tradition, likeyou read about in books – a sort of Curse of the Mannering-Phippses, as it were. Perhaps each head of the family’s going tomarry into vaudeville for ever and ever. Unto the what-d’you-call-it generation, don’t you know?’ ‘Please do not be quite idiotic, Bertie. There is one head ofthe family who is certainly not going to do it, and that is Gus-sie. And you are going to America to stop him.’ ‘Yes, but why me?’ ‘Why you? You are too vexing, Bertie. Have you no sort offeeling for the family? You are too lazy to try to be a credit toyourself, but at least you can exert yourself to prevent Gussie’sdisgracing us. You are going to America because you are Gus-sie’s cousin, because you have always been his closest friend,because you are the only one of thefamily who has absolutelynothing to occupy his time except golf and night clubs.’ ‘I play a lot of auction.’ ‘And as you say, idiotic gambling in low dens. If you re-quire another reason, you are going because I ask you as a per-sonal favour.’ What she meant was that, if I refused, she would exert thefull bent of her natural genius to make life a Hades for me. Sheheld me with her glittering eye. I have never met anyone whocan give a better imitation of the Ancient Mariner. ‘So you will start at once, won’t you, Bertie?’ I didn’t hesitate.
‘Rather!’ I said. ‘Of course I will’ Jeeves came in with the tea. ‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘we start for America on Saturday.’ ‘Very good, sir,’ he said; ‘which suit will you wear?’ New York is a large city conveniently situated on the edgeof America, so that you step off the liner right on to it withoutan effort. You can’t lose your way. You go out of a barn anddown some stairs, and there you are, right in among it. Theonly possible objection any reasonable chappie could find tothe place is that they loose you into it from the boat at such anungodly hour. I left Jeeves to get my baggage safely past an aggregation ofsuspicious-minded pirates who were digging for buried treas-ures among my new shirts, and drove to Gussie’s hotel, where Irequested the squad of gentlemanly clerks behind the desk toproduce him. That’s where I got my first shock. He wasn’t there. Ipleaded with them to think again, and they thought again, butit was no good. No Augustus Mannering-Phipps on the prem-ises. I admit I was hard hit. There I was alone in a strange cityand no signs of Gussie. What was the next step? I am never oneof the master minds in the early morning; the old bean doesn’tsomehow seem to get into its stride till pretty late in the p.m.s,and I couldn’t think what to do. However, some instinct tookme through a door at the back of the lobby, and I found myselfin a large room with an enormous picture stretching across thewhole of one wall, and under the picture a counter, and behindthe counter divers chappies in white, serving drinks. They havebarmen, don’t you know, in New York, not barmaids. Rumidea! I put myself unreservedly into the hands of one of thewhite chappies. He was a friendly soul, and I told him thewhole state of affairs. I asked him what he thought would meetthe case. He said that in a situation of that sort he usually prescribeda ‘lightning whizzer’, an invention of his own. He said this waswhat rabbits trained on when they were matched against griz-zly bears, and there was only one instance on record of the bearhaving lasted three rounds. So I tried a couple, and, by Jove!the man was perfectly right. As I drained the second a greatload seemed to fall from my heart, and I went out in quite abraced way to have a look at the city.
I was surprised to find the streets quite full. People werebustling along as if it were some reasonable hour and not thegrey dawn. In the tramcars they were absolutely standing oneach other’s necks. Going to business or something, I take it.Wonderful johnnies! The odd part of it was that after the first shock of seeing allthis frightful energy the thing didn’t seem so strange. I’ve spo-ken to fellows since who have been to New York, and they tellme they found it just the same. Apparently there’s somethingin the air, either the ozone or the phosphates or something,which makes you sit up and take notice. A kind of zip, as itwere. A sort of bally freedom, if you know what I mean, thatgets into your blood and bucks you up, and makes you feelthat—God’s in His Heaven: All’s right with the world, and you don’t care if you’ve got odd socks on. I can’t express itbetter than by saying that the thought uppermost in my mind,as I walked about the place they call Times Square, was thatthere were three thousand miles of deep water between me andmy Aunt Agatha. It’s a funny thing about looking for things. If you hunt for aneedle in a haystack you don’t find it. If you don’t give a darnwhether you ever see the needle or not it runs into you the firsttime you lean against the stack. By the time I had strolled upand down once or twice, seeing the sights and letting the whitechappie’s corrective permeate my system, I was feeling that Iwouldn’t care if Gussie and I never met again, and I’m dashedif I didn’t suddenly catch sight of the old lad, as large as life,just turning in at a doorway down the street. I called after him, but he didn’t hear me, so I legged it inpursuit and caught him going into an office on the first floor.The name on the door was Abe Riesbitter, Vaudeville Agent,and from the other side of the door came the sound of manyvoices. He turned and stared at me. ‘Bertie! What on earth are youdoing? Where have you sprung from? When did you arrive?’ ‘Landed this morning. I went round to your hotel, but theysaid you weren’t there. They had never heard of you.’ ‘I’ve changed my name. I call myself George Wilson.’ ‘Why on earth?’
‘Well, you try calling yourself Augustus Mannering-Phippsover here, and see how it strikes you. You feel a perfect ass. Idon’t know what it is about America, but the broad fact is thatit’s not a place where you can call yourself Augustus Manner-ing-Phipps. And there’s another reason. I’ll tell you later. Ber-tie, I’ve fallen in love with the dearest girl in the world.’ The poor old nut looked at me in such a deuced cat-likeway, standing with his mouth open, waiting to be congratu- lated, that I simply hadn’t the heart to tell him that I knew allabout that already, and had come over to the country for theexpress purpose of laying him a stymie. So I congratulated him. ‘Thanks awfully, old man,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit premature,but I fancy it’s going to be all right. Come along in here, and I’lltell you about it.’ ‘What do you want in this place? It looks a rummy spot.’ ‘Oh, that’s part of the story. I’ll tell you the whole thing.’ We opened the door marked ‘Waiting Room’. I never sawsuch a crowded place in my life. The room was packed till thewalls bulged. Gussie explained. ‘Pros,’ he said, ‘music-hall artistes, you know, waiting tosee old Abe Riesbitter. This is September the first, vaudeville’sopening day. The early fall,’ said Gussie, who is a bit of a poetin his way, ‘is vaudeville’s springtime. All over the country, asAugust wanes, sparkling comediennes burst into bloom, thesap stirs in the veins of tramp cyclists, and last year’s contor-tionists, waking from their summer sleep, tie themselves tenta-tively into knots. What I mean is, this is the beginning of thenew season, and everybody’s out hunting for bookings.’
‘But what do you want here?’ ‘Oh, I’ve just got to see Abe about something. If you see afat man with about fifty-seven chins come out of that doorthere grab him, for that’ll be Abe. He’s one of those fellows whoadvertise each step up they take in the world by growing an-other chin. I’m told that way back in the nineties he only hadtwo. If you do grab Abe, remember that he knows me asGeorge Wilson.’ ‘You said that you were going to explain that George Wil-son business to me, Gussie, old man.’ ‘Well, it’s this way – ’ At this juncture dear old Gussie broke off short, rose fromhis seat, and sprang with indescribable vim at an extraordinar-ily stout chappie who had suddenly appeared. There was thedeuce of a rush for him, but Gussie had got away to a goodstart, and the rest of the singers, dancers, jugglers, acrobats,and refined sketch teams seemed to recognize that he had wonthe trick, for they ebbed back into their places again, and Gus-sie and I went into the inner room. Mr Riesbitter lit a cigar, and looked at us solemnly over hiszareba of chins. ‘Now, let me tell ya something,’ he said to Gussie. ‘Youlizzun t’ me.’ Gussie registered respectful attention. Mr Riesbittermused for a moment and shelled the cuspidor with indirect fireover the edge of the desk. ‘Lizzun t’ me,’ he said again. ‘I seen you rehearse, as Ipromised Miss Denison I would. You ain’t bad for an amateur.You gotta lot to learn, but it’s in you. What it comes to is that Ican fix you up in the four-a-day, if you’ll take thirty-five per. Ican’t do better than that, and I wouldn’t have done that if thelittle lady hadn’t of kep’ after me. Take it or leave it. What doyou say?’ ‘I’ll take it,’ said Gussie, huskily. ‘Thank you.’
In the passage outside, Gussie gurgled with joy andslapped me on the back. ‘Bertie, old man, it’s all right. I’m thehappiest man in New York.’ ‘Now what?’ ‘Well, you see, as I was telling you when Abe came in, Ray’sfather used to be in the profession. He was before our time, butI remember hearing about him – Joe Danby. He used to bewell known in London before he came over to America. Well,he’s a fine old boy, but as obstinate as a mule, and he didn’tlike the idea of Ray marrying me because I wasn’t in the pro-fession. Wouldn’t hear of it. Well, you remember at Oxford Icould always sing a song pretty well; so Ray got hold of old Ri- esbitter and made him promise to come and hear me rehearseand get me bookings if he liked my work. She stands high withhim. She coached me for weeks, the darling. And now, as youheard him say, he’s booked me in the small time at thirty-fivedollars a week.’ I steadied myself against the wall. The effects of the re-storatives supplied by my pal at the hotel bar were beginning towork off, and I felt a little weak. Through a sort of mist Iseemed to have a vision of Aunt Agatha hearing that the headof the Mannering-Phippses was about to appear on the vaude-ville stage. Aunt Agatha’s worship of the family name amountsto an obsession. The Mannering-Phippses were an old-established clan when William the Conqueror was a small boygoing round with bare legs and a catapult. For centuries theyhave called kings by their first names and helped dukes withtheir weekly rent; and there’s practically nothing a Mannering-Phipps can do that doesn’t blot his escutcheon. So what AuntAgatha would say – beyond saying that it was all my fault –when she learned the horrid news, it was beyond me to imag-ine. ‘Come back to the hotel, Gussie,’ I said. ‘There’s a sports-man there who mixes things he calls "lightning whizzers".Something tells me I need one now. And excuse me for oneminute, Gussie. I want to send a cable.’ It was clear to me by now that Aunt Agatha had picked thewrong man for this job of disentangling Gussie from theclutches of the American vaudeville profession. What I neededwas reinforcements. For a moment I thought of cabling AuntAgatha to come over, but reason told me that this would beoverdoing it. I wanted assistance, but not so badly as that. I hitwhat seemed to me the happy mean. I cabled to Gussie’smother and made it urgent. ‘What were you cabling about?’ asked Gussie, later. ‘Oh just to say I had arrived safely, and all that sort oftosh,’ I answered.
Gussie opened his vaudeville career on the following Mon-day at a rummy sort of place uptown where they had movingpictures some of the time and, in between, one or two vaude-ville acts. It had taken a lot of careful handling to bring him upto scratch. He seemed to take my sympathy and assistance forgranted, and I couldn’t let him down. My only hope, whichgrew as I listened to him rehearsing, was that he would be sucha frightful frost at his first appearance that he would never dareto perform again; and, as that would automatically squash themarriage, it seemed best to me to let the thing go on. He wasn’t taking any chances. On the Saturday and Sun-day we practically lived in a beastly little music-room at the of-fices of the publishers whose songs he proposed to use. A littlechappie with a hooked nose sucked a cigarette and played thepiano all day. Nothing could tire that lad. He seemed to take apersonal interest in the thing. Gussie would cleat his throat and begin: ‘There’s a great big choo-choo waiting at the deepo.’ THE CHAPPIE (playing chords): ‘Is that so? What’s itwaiting for?’ GUSSIE (rather rattled at the interruption): ‘Waiting forme.’ THE CHAPPIE (surprised): For you?’ GUSSIE (sticking to it): ‘Waiting for me-e-ee!’ THE CHAPPIE (sceptically): ‘You don’t say!’ GUSSIE: ‘For I’m off to Tennessee.’
THE CHAPPIE (conceding a point): ‘Now, I live atYonkers.’ He did this all through the song. At first poor old Gussieasked him to stop, but the chappie said, No, it was alwaysdone. It helped to get pep into the thing. He appealed to mewhether the thing didn’t want a bit of pep, and I said it wantedall the pep it could get. And the chappie said to Gussie, ‘Thereyou are!’ So Gussie had to stand it. The other song that he intended to sing was one of thosemoon songs. He told me in a hushed voice that he was using itbecause it was one of the songs that the girl Ray sang when lift-ing them out of their seats at Mosenstein’s and elsewhere. Thefact seemed to give it sacred associations for him. You will scarcely believe me, but the management expectedGussie to show up and start performing at one o’clock in theafternoon. I told him they couldn’t be serious, as they mustknow that he would be rolling out for a bit of lunch at thathour, but Gussie said this was the usual thing in the four-a-day, and he didn’t suppose he would ever get any lunch againuntil he landed on the big time. I was just condoling with him,when I found that he was taking it for granted that I should bethere at one o’clock, too. My idea had been that I should look inat night, when – if he survived – he would be coming up for thefourth time; but I’ve never deserted a pal in distress, so I saidgood-bye to the little lunch I’d been planning at a rather decenttavern I’d discovered on Fifth Avenue, and trailed along. Theywere showing pictures when I reached my seat. It was one ofthose Western films, where the cowboy jumps on his horse andrides across country at a hundred and fifty miles an hour to es-cape the sheriff, not knowing, poor chump! that he might justas well stay where he is, the sheriff having a horse of his ownwhich can do three hundred miles an hour without coughing. Iwas just going to close my eyes and try to forget till they putGussie’s name up when I discovered that I was sitting next to adeucedly pretty girl. No, let me be honest. When I went in I had seen that therewas a deucedly pretty girl sitting in that particular seat, so Ihad taken the next one. What happened now was that I began,as it were, to drink her in. I wished they would turn the lightsup so that I could see her better. She was rather small, withgreat big eyes and a ripping smile. It was a shame to let all that run to seed, so to speak, insemi-darkness. Suddenly the lights did go up, and the orchestra began toplay a tune which, though I haven’t much of an ear for music,seemed somehow familiar. The next instant out pranced oldGussie from the wings in a purple frock-coat and a brown top-hat, grinned feebly at the audience, tripped over his feetblushed, and began to sing the Tennessee song. It was rotten. The poor nut had got stage fright so badlythat it practically eliminated his voice. He sounded like somefar-off echo of the past ‘yodelling’ through a woollen blanket.For the first time since I had heard that he was about to gointo vaudeville I felt a faint hope creeping over me. I was sorryfor the wretched chap, of course, but there was no denying thatthe thing had its bright side. No management on earth wouldgo on paying thirty-five dollars a week for this sort of perform-ance. This was going to be Gussie’s first and only. He wouldhave to leave the profession. The old boy would say, ‘Unhandmy daughter’. And, with decent luck, I saw myself leading Gus-sie on to the next England-bound liner and handing him overintact to Aunt Agatha. He got through the song somehow and limped off amidstroars of silence from the audience. There was a brief respite,then out he came again. He sang this time as if nobody loved him. As a song, it wasnot a very pathetic song, being all about coons spooning inJune under the moon, and so on and so forth, but Gussie han-dled it in such a sad, crushed way that there was genuine an-guish in every line. By the time he reached the refrain I wasnearly in tears. It seemed such a rotten sort of world with allthat kind of thing going on in it.
He started the refrain, and then the most frightful thinghappened. The girl next to me got up in her seat, chucked herhead back, and began to sing too. I say ‘too’, but it wasn’t reallytoo, because her first note stopped Gussie dead, as if he hadbeen pole-axed. I never felt so bally conspicuous in my life. I huddled downin my seat and wished I could turn my collar up. Everybodyseemed to be looking at me. In the midst of my agony I caught sight of Gussie. A com-plete change had taken place in the old lad. He was lookingmost frightfully bucked. I must say the girl was singing most awfully well, and itseemed to act on Gussie like a tonic. When she came to the endof the refrain, he took it up, and they sang it together, and theend of it was that he went off the popular hero. The audienceyelled for more, and were only quieted when they turned downthe lights and put on a film. When I had recovered I tottered round to see Gussie. Ifound him sitting on a box behind the stage, looking like onewho had seen visions. ‘Isn’t she a wonder, Bertie?’ he said, devoutly. ‘I hadn’t anotion shewas going to be there. She’s playing at the Audito-rium this week, and she can only just have had time to get backto her matinee. She risked being late, just to come and see methrough. She’s my good angel, Bertie. She saved me. If shehadn’t helped me out I don’t know what would have happened.I was so nervous I didn’t know what I was doing. Now that I’vegot through the first show I shall be all right.’ I was glad I had sent that cable to his mother. I was goingto need her. The thing had got beyond me
During the next week I saw a lot of old Gussie, and wasintroduced to the girl. I also met her father, a formidable oldboy with quick eyebrows and a sort of determined expression. On the following Wednesday Aunt Julia arrived. MrsMannering-Phipps, my aunt Julia, is, I think, the mostdignified person I know. She lacks Aunt Agatha’s punch, but ina quiet way she has always contrived to make me feel, fromboyhood up, that I was a poor worm. Not that she harries melike Aunt Agatha. The difference between the two is that AuntAgatha conveys the impression that she considers me person-ally responsible for all the sin and sorrow in the world, whileAunt Julia’s manner seems to suggest that I am more to bepitied than censured.
If it wasn’t that the thing was a matter of historical fact, Ishould be inclined to believe that Aunt Julia had never been onthe vaudeville stage. She is like a stage duchess. She always seems to me to be in a perpetual state of beingabout to desire the butler to instruct the head footman to servelunch in the blue-room overlooking the west terrace. She ex-udes dignity. Yet, twenty-five years ago, so I’ve been told by oldboys who were lads about town in those days, she was knock-ing them cold at the Tivoli in a double act called ‘Fun in a Tea-Shop’, in which she wore tights and sang a song with a chorusthat began, ‘Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay’. There are some things a chappie’s mind absolutely refusesto picture, and Aunt Julia singing ‘Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay’is one of them. She got straight to the point within five minutes of ourmeeting. ‘What is this about Gussie? Why did you cable for me, Ber-tie?’ ‘It’s rather a long story,’ I said, ‘and complicated. If youdon’t mind, I’ll let you have it in a series of motion pictures.Suppose we look in at the Auditorium for a few minutes.’ The girl, Ray, had been re-engaged for a second week atthe Auditorium, owing to the big success of her first week. Heract consisted of three songs. She did herself well in the matterof costume and scenery. She had a ripping voice. She lookedmost awfully pretty; and altogether the act was, broadly speak-ing, a pippin. Aunt Julia didn’t speak till we were in our seats. Then shegave a sort of sigh. ‘It’s twenty-five years since I was in a music-hall!’ She didn’t say any more, but sat there with her eyes gluedon the stage.
After about half an hour the johnnies who work the card-index system at the side of the stage put up the name of RayDenison, and there was a good deal of applause. ‘Watch this act, Aunt Julia,’ I said. She didn’t seem to hear me. ‘Twenty-five years! What did you say, Bertie?’ ‘Watch this act and tell me what you think of it.’ ‘Who is it? Ray. Oh!’ ‘Exhibit A,’ I said. ‘The girl Gussie’s engaged to.’ The girl did her act, and the house rose at her. They didn’twant to let her go. She had to come back again and again. When she had finally disappeared I turned to Aunt Julia. ‘Well?’ I said.
‘I like her work. She’s an artist.’ ‘We will now, if you don’t mind, step a goodish way up-town.’ And we took the subway to where Gussie, the human film,was earning his thirty-five per. As luck would have it, we hadn’tbeen in the place ten minutes when out he came. ‘Exhibit B,’ I said. ‘Gussie.’ I don’t quite know what I had expected her to do, but I cer-tainly didn’t expect her to sit there without a word. She did notmove a muscle, but just stared at Gussie as he drooled onabout the moon. I was sorry for the woman, for it must havebeen a shock to her to see her only son in a mauve frockcoatand a brown top-hat, but I thought it best to let her get a stran-gle-hold on the intricacies of the situation as quickly as possi-ble. If I had tried to explain the affair without the aid of illus-trations I should have talked all day and left her muddled up asto who was going to marry whom, and why. I was astonished at the improvement in dear old Gussie.He had got back his voice and was putting the stuff over well. Itreminded me of the night at Oxford when, then but a lad ofeighteen, he sang ‘Let’s All Go Down the Strand’ after a bumpsupper, standing the while up to his knees in the college foun-tain. He was putting just the same zip into the thing now. When he had gone off Aunt Julia sat perfectly still for along time, and then she turned to me. Her eyes shone queerly. ‘What does this mean, Bertie?’ She spoke quite quietly, but her voice shook a bit. ‘Gussie went into the business,’ I said, ‘because the girl’sfather wouldn’t let him marry her unless he did. If you feel upto it perhaps you wouldn’t mind tottering round to One Hun-dred and Thirty-third Street and having a chat with him. He’san old boy with eyebrows, and he’s Exhibit C on my list. WhenI’ve put you in touch with him I rather fancy my share of thebusiness is concluded, and it’s up to you.’
The Danbys lived in one of those big apartments uptownwhich look as if they cost the earth and really cost about half asmuch as a hall-room down in the forties. We were shown intothe sitting-room, and presently old Danby came in. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Danby,’ I began. I had got as far as that when there was a kind of gaspingcry at my elbow. ‘Joe!’ cried Aunt Julia, and staggered against the sofa. Fora moment old Danby stared at her, and then his mouth fellopen and his eyebrows shot up like rockets. ‘Julie!’ And then they had got hold of each other’s hands and wereshaking them till I wondered their arms didn’t come un-screwed. I’m not equal to this sort of thing at such short notice. Thechange in Aunt Julia made me feel quite dizzy. She had shedher “grande-dame” manner completely, and was blushing andsmiling. I don’t like to say such things of any aunt of mine, or Iwould go further and put it on record that she was giggling.And old Danby, who usually looked like a cross between a Ro- man emperor and Napoleon Bonaparte in a bad temper, wasbehaving like a small boy. ‘Joe!’ ‘Julie!’
‘Dear old Joe! Fancy meeting you again!’ ‘Wherever have you come from, Julie?’ Well, I didn’t know what it was all about, but I felt a bit outof it. I butted in: ‘Aunt Julia wants to have a talk with you, Mr Danby.’ ‘I knew you in a second, Joe!’ ‘It’s twenty-five years since I saw you, kid, and you don’tlook a day older.’ ‘Oh, Joe! I’m an old woman!’ ‘What are you doing over here? I suppose’ – old Danby’scheerfulness waned a trifle – ’I suppose your husband is withyou?’ ‘My husband died a long, long while ago, Joe.’ Old Danby shook his head. ‘You never ought to have mar-ried out of the profession, Julie. I’m not saying a word againstthe late – I can’t remember his name; never could – but youshouldn’t have done it, an artist like you. Shall I ever forget theway you used to knock them with "Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay"?’
‘Ah! how wonderful you were in that act, Joe.’ Aunt Juliasighed. ‘Do you remember the back-fall you used to do downthe steps? I always have said that you did the best back-fall inthe profession.’ ‘I couldn’t do it now!’ ‘Do you remember how we put it across at the Canterbury,Joe? Think of it! The Canterbury’s a moving-picture housenow, and the old Mogul runs French revues.’ ‘I’m glad I’m not there to see them.’ ‘Joe, tell me, why did you leave England?’ ‘Well, I – I wanted a change. No I’ll tell you the truth, kid. Iwanted you, Julie. You went off and married that – whateverthat stage-door johnny’s name was – and it broke me all up.’ Aunt Julia was staring at him. She is what they call a well-preserved woman. It’s easy to see that, twenty-five years ago,she must have been something quite extraordinary to look at.Even now she’s almost beautiful. She has very large browneyes, a mass of soft grey hair, and the complexion of a girl ofseventeen. ‘Joe, you aren’t going to tell me you were fond of me your-self!’ ‘Of course I was fond of you. Why did I let you have all thefat in "Fun in a Tea-Shop"? Why did I hang about upstagewhile you sang "Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay"? Do you remembermy giving you a bag of buns when we were on the road at Bris-tol?’ ‘Yes, but – ’
‘Do you remember my giving you the ham sandwiches atPortsmouth?’ ‘Joe!’ ‘Do you remember my giving you a seed-cake at Birming-ham? What did you think all that meant, if not that I lovedyou? Why, I was working up by degrees to telling you straightout when you suddenly went off and married that cane-suckingdude. That’s why I wouldn’t let my daughter marry this youngchap, Wilson, unless he went into the profession. She’s an art-ist – ’ ‘She certainly is, Joe.’ ‘You’ve seen her? Where?’ ‘At the Auditorium just now. But, Joe, you mustn’t stand inthe way of her marrying the man she’s in love with. He’s an art-ist, too.’ ‘In the small time.’ ‘You were in the small time once, Joe. You mustn’t lookdown on him because he’s a beginner. I know you feel thatyour daughter is marrying beneath her, but – ’ ‘How on earth do you know anything about young Wilson?’ ‘He’s my son.’
‘Your son?’ ‘Yes, Joe. And I’ve just been watching him work. Oh, Joe,you can’t think how proud I was of him! He’s got it in him. It’sfate. He’s my son and he’s in the profession! Joe, you don’tknow what I’ve been through for his sake. They made a lady ofme. I never worked so hard in my life as I did to become a reallady. They kept telling me I had got to put it across, no matterwhat it cost, so that he wouldn’t be ashamed of me. The studywas something terrible. I had to watch myself every minute foryears, and I never knew when I might fluff my lines or falldown on some bit of business. But I did it, because I didn’twant him to be ashamed of me, though all the time I was justaching to be back where I belonged.’ Old Danby made a jump at her, and took her by the shoul-ders. ‘Come back where you belong, Julie!’ he cried. ‘Your hus-band’s dead, your son’s a pro. Come back! It’s twenty-five yearsago, but I haven’t changed. I want you still. I’ve always wantedyou. You’ve got to come back, kid, where you belong.’ Aunt Julia gave a sort of gulp and looked at him. ‘Joe!’ she said in a kind of whisper. ‘You’re here, kid,’ said Old Danby, huskily. ‘You’ve comeback.... Twenty-five years!... You’ve come back and you’re go-ing to stay!’ She pitched forward into his arms, and he caught her. ‘Oh, Joe! Joe! Joe!’ she said. ‘Hold me. Don’t let me go.Take care of me.’ And I edged for the door and slipped from the room. I feltweak. The old bean will stand a certain amount, but this wastoo much. I groped my way out into the street and wailed for ataxi. Gussie called on me at the hotel that night. He curvetedinto the room as if he had bought it and the rest of the city.
‘Bertie,’ he said, ‘I feel as if I were dreaming.’ ‘I wish I could feel like that, old top,’ I said, and I took an-other glance at a cable that had arrived half an hour ago fromAunt Agatha. I had been looking at it at intervals ever since. ‘Ray and I got back to her flat this evening. Who do youthink was there? The mater! She was sitting hand in hand withold Danby.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘He was sitting hand in hand with her.’ ‘Really?’ ‘They are going to be married.’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘Ray and I are going to be married.’ ‘I suppose so.’
‘Bertie, old man, I feel immense. I look round me, and eve-rything seems to be absolutely corking. The change in the ma-ter is marvellous. She is twenty-five years younger. She and oldDanby are talking of reviving "Fun in a Tea-Shop", and goingout on the road with it.’ I got up. ‘Gussie, old top,’ I said, ‘leave me for a while. I would bealone. I think I’ve got brain fever or something.’ ‘Sorry, old man; perhaps New York doesn’t agree with you.When do you expect to go back to England?’ I looked again at Aunt Agatha’s cable. ‘With luck,’ I said, ‘in about ten years.’ When he was gone I took up the cable and read it again. ‘What is happening?’ it read. ‘Shall I come over?’ I sucked a pencil for a while, and then I wrote the reply.It was not an easy cable to word, but I managed it. ‘No,’ I wrote, ‘stay where you are. Profession overcrowded.’
Related Stories
This story was printed from:
© 2025 Narrivum. All rights reserved.