provided who would stand in the centre of the room and call for partners: “Lady with strong views in favour of female franchise wishes to meet gentleman holding the opinions of St. Paul. With view to argument.”
An American lady, a year or two ago, wrote me a letter that did me real good: she appreciated my work with so much understanding, criticised it with such sympathetic interest. She added that, when in England the summer before, she had been on the point of accepting an invitation to meet me; but at the last moment she had changed her mind; she felt so sure—she put it pleasantly, but this is what it came to—that in my own proper person I should fall short of her expectations. For my own sake I felt sorry she had cried off; it would have been worth something to have met so sensible a woman. An author introduced to people who have read—or who say that they have read—his books, feels always like a man taken for the first time to be shown to his future wife’s relations. They are very pleasant. They try to put him at his ease. But he knows instinctively they are disappointed with him. I remember, when a very young man, attending a party at which a famous American humorist was the chief guest. I was standing close behind a lady who was talking to her husband.
“He doesn’t look a bit funny,” said the lady.
“Great Scott!” answered her husband. “How did you expect him to look? Did you think he would have a red nose and a patch over one eye?”
“Oh, well, he might look funnier than that, anyhow,” retorted the lady, highly dissatisfied. “It isn’t worth coming for.”
We all know the story of the hostess who, leaning across the table during the dessert, requested of the funny man that he would kindly say something amusing soon, because the dear children were waiting to go to bed. Children, I suppose, have no use for funny people who don’t choose to be funny. I once invited a friend down to my house for a Saturday to Monday. He is an entertaining man, and before he came I dilated on his powers of humour—somewhat foolishly perhaps—in the presence of a certain youthful person who resides with me, and who listens when she oughtn’t to, and never when she ought. He happened not to be in a humorous mood that evening. My young relation, after dinner, climbed upon my knee. For quite five minutes she sat silent. Then she whispered:
“Has he said anything funny?”
“Hush. No, not yet; don’t be silly.”
Five minutes later: “Was that funny?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Because—can’t you hear? We are talking about Old Age Pensions.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s—oh, never mind now. It isn’t a subject on which one can be funny.”
“Then what’s he want to talk about it for?”
She waited for another quarter of an hour. Then, evidently bored, and much to my relief, suggested herself that she might as well go to bed. She ran to me the next morning in the garden with an air of triumph.
“He said something so funny last night,” she told me.
“Oh, what was it?” I inquired. It seemed to me I must have missed it.
“Well, I can’t exactly ’member it,” she explained, “not just at the moment. But it was so funny. I dreamed it, you know.”
For folks not Lions, but closely related to Lions, introductions must be trying ordeals. You tell them that for years you have been yearning to meet them. You assure them, in a voice trembling with emotion, that this is indeed a privilege. You go on to add that when a boy—
At this point they have to interrupt you to explain that they are not the Mr. So-and-So, but only his cousin or his grandfather; and all you can think of to say is: “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
I had a nephew who was once the amateur long-distance bicycle champion. I have him still, but he is stouter and has come down to a motor car. In sporting circles I was always introduced as “Shorland’s Uncle.” Close-cropped young men would gaze at me with rapture; and then inquire: “And do you do anything yourself, Mr. Jerome?”
But my case was not so bad as that of a friend of mine, a doctor. He married a leading actress, and was known ever afterwards as “Miss B—‘s husband.”
At public dinners, where one takes one’s seat for the evening next to someone that one possibly has never met before, and is never likely to meet again, conversation is difficult and dangerous. I remember talking to a lady at a Vagabond Club dinner. She asked me during the entree—with a light laugh, as I afterwards recalled—what I thought, candidly, of the last book of a certain celebrated authoress. I told her, and a coldness sprang up between us. She happened to be the certain celebrated authoress; she had changed her place at the last moment so as to avoid sitting next to another lady novelist, whom she hated.
One has to shift oneself, sometimes, on these occasions. A newspaper man came up to me last Ninth of November at the Mansion House.
“Would you mind changing seats with me?” he asked. “It’s a bit awkward. They’ve put me next to my first wife.”
I had a troubled evening myself once long ago. I accompanied a young widow lady to a musical At Home, given by a lady who had more acquaintances than she knew. We met the butler at the top of the stairs. My friend spoke first:
“Say Mrs. Dash and—”
The butler did not wait for more—he was a youngish man—but shouted out:
“Mr. and Mrs. Dash.”
“My dear! how very quiet you have kept!” cried our hostess delighted. “Do let me congratulate you.”
The crush was too great and our hostess too distracted at the moment for any explanations. We were swept away, and both of us spent the remainder of the evening feebly protesting our singleness.
If it had happened on the stage it would have taken us the whole play to get out of it. Stage people are not allowed to put things right when mistakes are made with their identity. If the light comedian is expecting a plumber, the first man that comes into the drawing-room has got to be a plumber. He is not allowed to point out that he never was a plumber; that he doesn’t look like a plumber; that no one not an idiot would mistake him for a plumber. He has got to be shut up in the bath-room and have water poured over him, just as if he were a plumber—a stage plumber, that is. Not till right away at the end of the last act is he permitted to remark that he happens to be the new curate.
I sat out a play once at which most people laughed. It made me sad. A dear old lady entered towards the end of the first act. We knew she was the aunt. Nobody can possibly mistake the stage aunt—except the people on the stage. They, of course, mistook her for a circus rider, and shut her up in a cupboard. It is what cupboards seem to be reserved for on the stage. Nothing is ever put in them excepting the hero’s relations. When she wasn’t in the cupboard she was in a clothes basket, or tied up in a curtain. All she need have done was to hold on to something while remarking to the hero:
“If you’ll stop shouting and jumping about for just ten seconds, and give me a chance to observe that I am your maiden aunt from Devonshire, all this tomfoolery can be avoided.”
That
