"A. E. Barrett."
I tried to think of a reply, both graceful and witty. The only one I could think of was, "Oh?"
"It's extraordinary. If your hair were just a little longer the likeness would be perfect."
I thought of offering to go away now and come back in a month's time.
Anyway, it would be an excuse for going now.
"I first knew him at Cambridge," he explained. "We were up together in the 'seventies."
"Ah, I was up in the nineteen hundreds," I said. "I just missed you both."
"Well, didn't they ever tell you at Cambridge that you were the image of A. E. Barrett?"
I tried to think. They had told me lots of things at Cambridge, but I couldn't remember any talk about A. E. Barrett.
"I should have thought every one would have noticed it," he said.
I had something graceful for him this time all right.
"Probably," I said, "those who were unfortunate enough to know me had not the honour of knowing A. E. Barrett."
"But everybody knew A. E. Barrett. _You've_ heard of him, of course?"
The dreadful moment had arrived. I knew it would.
"Of course," I said.
"A charming fellow."
"Very brainy," I agreed.
"Well, just ask any of your artist friends if they don't notice the likeness. The nose, the eyes, the expression--wonderful! But I must be going. Perhaps I shall see you here again some day. Good afternoon"; and he raised his hat and left me.
You can understand that I was considerably disturbed. First, why had I never heard of A. E. Barrett? Secondly, what sort of looking fellow was he? Thirdly, with all this talk about A. E. Barrett, however many sandwiches had I eaten? The last question seemed the most impossible to answer, so I said "eight," to be on the safe side, and went back to work.
In the evening I called upon Peter. My acquaintance of the afternoon had assumed too readily that I should allow myself to be on friendly terms with artists; but Peter's wife illustrates books, and they both talk in a disparaging way of our greatest Academicians.
"Who," I began at once, as I shook hands, "did I remind you of as I came in at the door?"
Peter was silent. Mrs. Peter, feeling that some answer was called for, said, "The cat."
"No, no. Now I'll come in again." I went out and returned dramatically.
"Now then, tell me frankly, doesn't that remind you of A. E. Barrett entering his studio?"
"Who is A. E. Barrett?"
I was amazed at their ignorance.
"He's the well-known artist. _Surely_ you've heard of him?"
"I seem to know the name," lied Peter. "What did he paint?"
"'Sunrise on the Alps,' 'A Corner of the West,' 'The Long Day Wanes'--_I_ don't know. Something. The usual thing."
"And are you supposed to be like him?"
"I am. Particularly when eating sandwiches."
"Is it worth while getting you some, in order to observe the likeness?"
asked Mrs. Peter.
"If you've never seen A. E. Barrett I fear you'd miss the likeness, even in the most favourable circumstances. Anyhow, you must have heard of him--dear old A. E.!"
They were utterly ignorant of him, so I sat down and told them what I knew; which, put shortly, was that he was a very remarkable-looking fellow.
I have not been to the sandwich-place since. Detesting the sandwiches as I do, I find A. E. Barrett a good excuse for keeping away. For, upon the day after that when he came into my life, I had a sudden cold fear that the thing was a plant. How, in what way, I cannot imagine. That I am to be sold a _Guide to Cambridge_ at the next meeting; that an A. E.
Barrett hair-restorer is about to be placed on the market; that an offer will be made to enlarge my photograph (or Barrett's) free of charge if I buy the frame--no, I cannot think what it can be.
Yet, after all, why should it be a plant? We Barretts are not the sort of men to be mixed up with fraud. Impetuous the Barrett type may be, obstinate, jealous--so much you see in our features. But dishonest?
Never!
Still, as I did honestly detest those last eight sandwiches, I shall stay away.
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 realization 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 not 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."