THE SERIOUS FAMILY

Ladies' Mirror, Volume I, Issue 8, 1 February 1923, Page 8

THE SERIOUS FAMILY

By RADCLIFFE MARTIN

TT was eight minutes to six, and Mrs. Rabson stationed herself at the less draughty corner of the window so that she could get the first tidings of Mr. Rabson’s approach. Then, at the glimpse of his top hat at the corner, she would ring the bell, and Mary, the invaluable servant, would bring the buttered toast in from the kitchen. But this night, instead of having to wait in agreeable expectancy for five minutes, Mr. Rabson appeared minutes before his regular time, and positively ran up the road. “Henrietta,” cried Mrs. Rabson to her daughter, a mature damsel of some thirty-five summers, “your father is running.” The two rushed to the door to meet him. Mr. Rabson had calamity written large on his face. “What is it, Joseph?” cried Mrs. Rabson. “My dear, Mr. William has been gambling on the Stock Exchange. The firm has failed. We were all given a week’s salary to-day instead of notice.” There came a crash of china in the passage, and Mrs. Rabson was drawn away by a more serious tragedy. “Mary, how could you be so careless. Nothing lasts in this house. That’s the plate Mr. Rabson has had his buttered toast on for twenty years. You’re getting more and more careless. I shall never forget_ that jug you smashed- on Miss Henrietta’s twenty-first birthday. No, indeed, throw the toast away. There might be fragments of china imbedded in it. Or you might keep it for the next beggar. Make some more buttered toast at once. It will be the first time in my married life that Mr. Rabson’s tea has been late.” More buttered toast was procured, and over it the Rabson family discussed the twin tragedies of the day —Mr. Rabson confining himself mainly to the topic of the bankruptcy, and his wife keeping almost exclusively to that of the broken plate, though occasionally she diverged into recollections of times in the last thirty-five years when she had warned Mr. Rabson about the instability of the firm. “You will soon get another post, father,” said Henrietta. “I am a business man. my dear,” replied Mr. Rabson. “and directly I had recovered from the shock of the announcement. I requested Mr. William’s permission to write out an advertisement in business hours. That advertisement will appear in several leading organs of public opinion to-morrow. I venture to say that there will be numerous replies to it.” “What did you say, father?” Mr. Rabson took a sheet of notepaper from his pocket-book, and in a loud, shrill tone, something like a respectable fog-horn, proceeded to read: “Experienced cashier, with forty-five years’ excellent character from one firm, requires responsible position. Leaving owing to old employers retiring from business. Highest references as to character, abilities, and industry.” “There will be competition for my services. I shall have to select my future post carefully.” “I must see your new office, Joseph, before you go to it,” broke in Mrs. Rabson. “I cannot have you sitting in draughts.”

“And if you don’t get anything, father,” said Henrietta, “I shall come out as a professional. My music will be useful then.’ “My dear child,” replied Mr. Rabson, “you know nothing about business. There is no necessity for you to go on the concert platform. You don’t realise what a forty-five years’ reference means. Firms jump at the chance of getting such a man. Now let us put the upsetting occurrences of the day out of our minds whilst I read the evening paper to your mother. There is an article on a new form of influenza which struck me as being both entertaining and instructive.” TT was very remarkable, or, at least, A Mr. Rabson considered it so, that there were no replies to any of his advertisements. In fact, he grew very wroth with the clerks in the advertisement officesalleging that his replies had been given to other people. Nor when he answered advertisements was he any more successful. The forty-five years’ experience with one firm seemed to have no influence with modern employers. The head of one firm told Mr. Rabson that he wanted a younger man, and this made Mr. Rabson most indignant. “Here am I. my dear, in the prime of middle life, not sixtytwo till June, and I am told that I am too old. It is preposterous. But this prejudice against middle-aged men is very serious. You see, my dear, our income from my savings is only a hundred a year, and it costs us two hundred to live. Something must be done.” “There is my singing, father,” interposed Henrietta. “My dear, I have a prejudice against a young daughter of mine appearing in public. Popular favour is very demoralising. Still, if your mother chaperoned you, I might waive my objection. If you received, say, a guinea a night for a hundred nights in a year, you would become quite a prop to this establishment.” “Perhaps your cousin John Abbott might get Henrietta something to do,” suggested Mrs. Rabson. “He mixes with all kinds of musical and theatrical people.” “Your suggestion is a good one, my dear. My cousin John, though a man of irregular habits and, I regret to say, a confirmed and persistent smoker, does move in such circles. Perhaps he could give me some hints as to how Henrietta should begin her career. I will call and see him in the morning.” The next day, as Mr. John Abbott, solicitor, sat in his office, a clerk entered with a card. Mr. Abbott glanced at it, whistled, and then said blandly: “Mr. Gray, will you kill this person and dispose of the body if I advance your salary two shillings per week.” The clerk knew his employer, and said smilingly, “Will you see the gentleman, sir?” “Just wait till I have lit a cigar. He can’t stand tobacco. Then show him in.” “Hallo, Joseph.” said the solicitor a moment later. “Come in, come in. Not seen you for fifteen years. Have a cigar?” Mr. Rabson waved the box aside. “You ought to remember, John, that I have never polluted my lips with tobacco. It demoralises, intoxicates —”

“Don’t worry about that. Nothing could demoralise me. What good wind blows you here?” “You know that I have left the firm.” “Joseph,” groaned the solicitor, “you don’t mean to tell me that it’s embezzlement!” “Certainly not, most certainly not,” returned Mr. Rabson indignantly. “The firm went into bankruptcy because its new head gambled on the Stock Exchange.” “I am so glad,” said the solicitor in relieved tones; “but if it had been embezzlement, I would have fought your case for you like a tiger. Always stick to your relations whatever they’ve —that’s my motto. Well, what are you doing now?” “At present, nothing. There is an absurd prejudice in commercial circles against men of experience. Even my reference of forty-five years in one situation gets me nothing. The only post I have had offered me was one as an addresser of envelopes at fifteen shillings a week.” “But you have money saved, surely,” said his cousin. “If I recollect you were never much of a betting man.” “I have never, Cousin John, wagered one single farthing in my life.” “You’ve missed some fun, then,” said the solicitor. “Still, you have money.” “Only a hundred a year, and that is insufficient.” “I should think so. Wouldn’t pay vour taxi fares. Well. I wish I’d a post for you here. But you’ve no legal training, and your punctuality would demoralise the staff in a week. Still, I’ll see if any of my clients need someone. I dare say I can get vou something.” “But it’s not for myself so much as for my daughter that I wanted your help. Henrietta possesses undoubted musical gifts, and I want you to aid her to turn them to account. Should she advertise for engagements?” “If she wishes to give financial support to a degraded press, yes. If she wants money for herself, no. But what does she do —harp, flute, bones. There might be an opening for a lady banjoist who could do something original— perform swinging by one leg from a trapeze.” “I would sooner see her in her grave than swinging by a limb in such a manner. My daughter sings songs to her own accompaniment on the piano.” “A good many young ladies do that,” returned the solicitor. “In fact, nowadays a girl is regarded as almost accomplished if she doesn’t do it.” “You come and hear her, and you’ll be impressed at once, John.” “Well, I will, and I tell you that if she’s any good I might get her a chance. You see. I’m solicitor to the Valhalla Music Hall.” “Would it be a fit place for my daughter to appear at?” “Would your daughter be fit to appear in it?that’s the question. Where do you live? What! Same old address! You must have been there a century. I’ll look you up to-morrow night somewhere between seven and one. And if your daughter should be too classy for the public—well, I dare say I could get you a place in one of the estate offices I am solicitor for.” “You will be welcome,” said Mr. Rabson, “but may I point out that

my wife always insists that we retire at ten. On occasions of great national rejoicing we have stretched a point and stayed up later, but, as a rule, ten is our time.” “Right! I’ll look you up before I start the evening. You’re quite sure you won’t have a cigar, Joseph, before you go?” HPHE next evening as Mr. Rabson sat reading the newspaper to his wife a loud tooting as of an insane elephant was heard in the road. “Dear me, dear me, those cars!” exclaimed Mr. Rabson. Just then came a loud knocking at the front door, and the voice of Cousin John talking to the servant. “Family in, Mary Jane? Not out on the spree? That’s right. Don’t trouble to announce me. One of their dearest and nearest relatives.” “Ah!” said Mr. Rabson, “delighted to see you, John. You have met my wife before.” The solicitor bowed, and said: “You don’t look a year older than when I saw you twenty years since, Mrs. Rabson.” Here he spoke the entire truth, for Mrs. Rabson was one of those happy or unhappy persons who at thirty-five look fifty-five, and then don’t age at all for twenty vears. She beamed on Mr. Abbott, and' said: “And this. Cousin John, is Henrietta, my little girl.” The solicitor gazed at the innocent child of thirty-five, who beamed on him through her spectacles, and simpered that she was pleased to meet him. “Perhaps Cousin John would like a peppermint,” suggested Mrs. Rabson. “No, thank you,” replied the solicitor firmly. “I love peppermints, but it always affects my hearing, and I have come to listen to your daughter. “I will just complete reading a paragraph I was reading to my wife,” said Mr. Rabson. “I find that if one does not complete a paragraph one forgets it afterwards. Do take that chair, cousin. It is most comfortable.” Mr. Abbott leant back in the horsehair armchair, and looked round the room, as Mr. Rabson, in a shrill voice, proceeded with an account of a freak dinner at the Savoy. The room impressed Mr. Abbott as being highly suitable for an Inquisition torture chamber or a dentist’s waiting room. There was a mass of hideously uncomfortable horsehair furniture. There were dingy cushions, the work of Mrs. Rabson. There were dingier crayon drawings, the work of Miss Rabson. There was a framed illuminated address presented to Mr. Rabson by his fellow clerks in recognition of forty years’ faithful service. There was Mr. Rabson reading in a voice that ran through one. There was Mrs. Rabson crocheting, and Miss Rabson perpetrating something desperate in the way of fancy work. “If I don’t reform,” meditated the solicitor, “I shall come here when I die!” And when the paragraph was at an end. and Mr. Rabson had finished declaring that on no account would he allow such extravagances as freak dinners in his housejust as if someone had suggested a freak dinner then and there—he turned to his Cousin John: “We always discuss the news of the day in this way. We find it elevating.” The solicitor said vacuously that it must be very elevating indeed. “And, now, cousin,” proceeded Mr. Rabson, “are you ready to hear outlittle girl. Perhaps you’d like the ‘Holy City,’ John?” “No,” exploded the solicitor. “That’s the limit. . . I mean it is one of the very worst songs in the world to judge a voice by.” “I understand,” said Mr. Rabson. “The beautiful words distract atten-

tion from the music. Sing anything else which you feel you can do justice to, my dear.” Henrietta Rabson smiled on the solicitor, sat down at the piano, and, without having the humanity to give the slightest warning, burst into “The Song That Reached My Heart.” John Abbott leant back in his chair and wondered whether the laws of politeness would allow him to leap out of the room and ride off in his car. The piano was badly out of tune, and the voice, though also out of tune, was differently out of tune. It was the most terrible experience of his life. And all the time Mr. and Mrs. Rabson were watching him to see how he thrilled with delight. He had just reached the point when exhausted and outraged nature could endure no more. He was on the verge of snatching his hat and bolting for the car when the great idea of his life came to him. He slapped his knees and stamped on the floor as she finished, and shouted: “Splendid! I’ll get an engagement for you all. It’s the catch of the century! It’s great! It’s great “I remember Patti at her best,” said Mrs. Rabson, “but I must say, speaking candidly, that I have never heard anything like Henrietta.” “And you never will!” said John Abbott as he lit a cigar and stamped up and down the room. “What do vou say to a hundred pounds a week for the lot of you. Do you know what I’m going to do? The British music hall public needs elevating. What it wants, though it doesn’t know it is a glimpse of the British home. Now I want you all just as vou are sitting in this room. We’ll have all the furniture, and, above all, that piano. Don’t dare to let a tuner touch it! It’s just perfect. Do you see what you’ve got to do, Joseph. You read bits out of the .paper to vour wife, and then call on Henrietta to sing. Just do precisely what you do here. It’ll be no trouble.” “Did you say a hundred pounds per week or per annum?” inquired Mr. Rabson. “If the latter, we could not risk damaging the furniture and the piano.” “A hundred pounds a week for a start. It may be more later, and all that you’ve got to do is to be your noble selves.” “Really my dear,” said Mr. Rabson. “I feel disposed to consider it.” “Right, then. I’ll arrange matters. You must hold yourselves and the furniture at my disposal. You’ll be wanted to rehearse soon. I’m going off in my car to see Aaron Buck, the Valhalla managing director, at once. I’ll see you get a chance.” “Don’t forget to mention to Mr. Buck the fact that I have been fortyfive years in the employment of one firm. I have no doubt that he will value a man of character in his music hall.” “Leave it all to me. See you again to-morrow. Ta-ta.” “I knew Henrietta’s voice would impress him,” said Mr. Rabson proudly when his cousin had gone. Mrs. Rabson leant back in her chair and murmured faintly: “He lit a cigar in here—in here! We only finished spring-cleaning the room yesterday. Call Mary before vou help me up to bed, dear, and I’ll instruct her to begin the springcleaning all over again at eight tomorrow morning.” A FORTNIGHT later the bills of the Valhalla Music Hall, in addition to the well-known popular favourites, “Happy Toe Fluke,” “Tricky Kitty Ponsonby,” “The Argonauts Aerial Balancers,” “Sham Poothe Chinese Magician,” and “Sandy —the Jew in Kilts,” contained one line in big type, “The Serious Family.” No one had ever heard of them. Happy Joe Fluke grew unhappy when

he saw the prominence this strange turn was given in the bill. Sham Poo, the Chinese Magician, declared in pidgin Irish, “What th’ divil’s this tur-rn that’s pushing me into the moving picthers?” Sandy Levi declared it was a happy family of performing animals he had once played with at a Hoboken music hall. But no one at the hall possessed the slightest information. The rehearsal had been conducted in privacy, and all that the great manager, Aaron Buck, would vouchsafe to his underlings “To-morrow night ‘The Serious Family’ either tops the bill or gets the push, and I’m blessed if I know which.” When the curtain went up on turn No. 4, “The Serious Family,” the audience for a moment did not know what to make of it. Mr. Rabson sat with his evening paper, Mrs. Rabson with her knitting, and Miss Rabson, demurely skittish, was posed on a footstool at her parents’ knees. There was a laugh at Mr. Rabson’s sidewhiskers, which, though natural, were regarded as a very fine piece of make-up, and then the audience waited expectantly. Mr. Rabson gave a most impressive “Hem!” which raised a giggle, and then, in a piercing voice, like that of an almost human fog-horn, said: “There’s a paragraph here which will just suit you, my dear. ‘Husband kills wife with a rolling-pin.’ Hem!” Mr. Rabson read the paragraph with magnificent emphasis, and then commented, “To think that an innocent domestic implement like a rolling-pin should be degraded to such case uses. It shows, my dear, what this country of ours is coming to. It does not state that the murderer was a smoker, but on that point I have no doubtno doubt whatever.” “And in these days,” replied Mrs. Rabson, “when clean general servants are so hard to get, there is not even the certainty that it was a clean roll-ing-pin.” Mr. Rabson laid down his paper, put his hand endearingly on his daughter’s head, and said “Perhaps, Henrietta, my sweet, now we have ceased discussing the serious topics of the day, you will favour us with a little music. “Certainly, papa,” replied Miss Henrietta, skipping towards the piano. In a minute she had burst into a melody recognisable by experts as “The Holy City.” “Kill her with a rolling-pin!” shouted some outraged musician in the gallery. “Hush shouted a dozen voices in the audience. They had grasped the point. It was a magnificent skit on a quiet family party. They howled approval at the end of each verse, and when it finished there were frantic shouts of “Encore!” Then followed her masterpiece, “The Song That Reached My Heart.” IyTR. Rabson stepped forward, red handkerchief in hand (he had to wipe the tears from his eyes when his daughter sang), and said: “My friends, you are most kind, but our time is limited. We have done our best to give you a representation of English home life at its best. (“Encore”). I hope that we have given _ you refined amusement without frivolity. Nothing in our programme. I flatter myself, could bring the blush of shame to the face of any young person. (Howls of laughter). You have seen for yourselves the simple yet priceless joys of home life, and to every bachelor and maiden present I say emphatically, ‘Go thou, and do likewise.’ ” “Go it, pa!” roared a voice from the gallery. Then came wild shrieks for “Ma at which Mrs. Rabson, with a red antimacassar sticking to her back, came forward and bowed. The audience writhed with delight, and howled for “Sweet!” and Henrietta Rabson came forward with a

kind of old-maidish skittishness, which produced screams of laughter. Aaron Buck suid, to Mr, Abbott, as they sat in a box together: “You’re right, my boy. There’s Sandy Levi’s number up, and they are still howling for more. You can have a twelvemonths’ engagement for my tour at a hundred a week. “Two hundred,” said Mr. Abbott. “They are even finer than I dreamed. Wasn’t the old ass’s speech to the audience immense. He must do that every night, and his wife must have the antimacassar pinned to her back. Two hundred, Aaron, my boy, and if you don’t agree to it at once I’ll take ’em across to the Frivolity.” And Aaron Buck, who knew a billtopping turn when he saw it, groaned that he was ruined, and instantly sent out for an agreement form. He was not sorry when he saw the papers the next day. The Bugle declared that it was one of the most realistic acts ever seen on any stage. The Echo’s critic spoke with enthusiasm of the wonderful art of Mr. Rabson, the superb grotesqueness of Mrs. Rabson, and the magnificent way in which Miss Rabson mimicked the songs of a tone-deaf amateur. And, finally, the dramatic critic of the Day announced that there had been nothing like it since Nora Heltaf acted Jokul at Reikjavik, and said that the realism of the Sicilian actors was eclipsed by this unknown English family. For one year the triumphant career of “The Serious Family” continued. Then lumbago and rheumatism caused Mr. and Mrs. Rabson to retire, and it was obvious that a young girl like Henrietta could not be allowed to pursue her career unchaperoned. So now, in a pleasant house at Brixton Hill, you may find “The Serious Family.” Mr. Rabson will readily fight his battles over again for the benefit of any visitor, “Most interesting,” he declares. “Apart from the atmosphere of tobacco smoke, the life was a delightful one. Our fellow-artists were most kind. It is true that a onelegged Japanese acrobat, whose name, curiously enough, was Kelly, on one occasion offered to stand believe that is the correct term —a bottle of Bass’s beer, an intoxicating beverage, to my daughter. But when I explained to him that she had been a pledged abstainer ever since, at the age of two, she was able to make her mark, he apologised most handsomely. And I shall always treasure the gold breast-pin, with ‘Pa’ set in pearls on it, which was presented to me on my retirement. “Still, I had advantages— a business experience of forty-five years with one firm. I am convinced that that told with the public. My friend ‘Happy Joe Fluke’ confided to me once that he had never held a business position more than two days. I said to him instantly, ‘That at once explains, Mr. Fluke, why you cannot hold an audience as we do.’ And we did good in our career. I have no doubt that Mrs. Rabson’s remarks on the Bare-backed Mexican Dancers produced a great effect — would have done so if they had understood English. But just come inside with me. We’ll have a glass of my wife’s non-intoxicating herb beer together, and I’ll show you all the Press cuttings of ‘The Serious Family.’ ”