THE COMIC MASK.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VI, Issue 35, 30 August 1890, Page 8

THE COMIC MASK.

—. Tis the Christmas Eve of a ‘ good oldV, a I] fashioned winter.’ Good, indeed, } 111 when the bitter frost which had N 1 mA * lasted for weeks has so hardened the ground that all out-door labour has stopped, when water is hard to get s & ami, to many, bread still harder. A good ‘ old-fashioned winter ’ , when the poor huddle together •’shiveringly by the tireless grate, and stare with hungry eyes at the empty ; cupboard : when the birds drop in '. . scores from the ice-bcund branches, stiff ami frozen, into the pitiful snow, ' digging with their fall their own tiny graves. Christmas Eve, ami in the Yorkshire town of Holydace, ami far around it, the snow is falling, lazily falling, in large fantastic flakes that come steadily, straightly down. They are in no hurry ; there is no hovering, drifting, dancing or sporting, for the air seems frozen, and is absolutely still. Seriously, soberly, quietly and orderly these flakes are falling, as though each had a mission and meant to fulfil it. So down, down they come, covering the frozen earth and the frozen trees. Covering the homes of the rich and the hovels of the poor, and hiding kindly the grim black scars that man has made in the fair face of nature while digging for her buried treasures. Covering the streets ami the stony boundaries which around this busy work-worn town do duty for hedgerow’s. Covering factory and church, and laying reverently a vast winding-sheet over the whole of God’s Acre, and those who rest in it, on the bleak hillside up yonder. Christmas Eve, and in the busy Market Hall the gas is flaring, the stalls are loaded with good things, and the cries of the vendors rise iu hoarse jerks over the ceaseless hum of the buyers and the murmurs of longing of those who can only look and cannot afford to buy. ‘ A good old-fashioned winter,’ and in the streets the singers are carrolling out ‘ Christians Awake !’ Yes, Christians awake—you who have the power to help, awake, for your brethren are starving and freezing. Awake ! Awake ! Open your hearts ami your pockets, and thank < foil reverently on this Christmas Eve, if with the will you have the power to feed and clothethem. Christmas Eve, and the snow is falling. A hush is creeping over the noisy streets, for the thick white carpet is covering the stones, and the wheels of the carts and the waggon roll noiselessly over it, and little is heard except the hum of distant voices and the clear, resonant ringing of the joy-bells from the old Parish church. Under the gas-lamps across the street the snow is falling, resting patches on the pantomime poster —glorious awhile ago in the strongest reds, blues, greens and yellows—now almost obscured by the universal white. Harlequin is covered, save his masked head, which stands out funerally black. Columbine’s legs alone are visible, looking red with thecold ; Pantaloon looks like a ghost of Father Christmas; the < 'lown’s crescent-like patches of ruddy colour on each cheek are covered with the snow, and even he seems to be shivering in the general frost. Round the corner ami through the narrow passages figures are flitting to and fro with anxious faces and quick, busy steps. Busy they seem and busy they are, for they are more or less connected with the Grand Comic Christmas Pantomime, now being rehearsed for production on Boxing Night at the Theatre Royal, Holydace, the stage entrance to which is across that dimly-lit yard, and through that barn-like door. Come up the stairs and on to the stage. Rehearsal is in full swing. The little theatre is like a human hive. There in the corner are the Light Comedian and the Walking Lady talking over the ‘trips’—or dances —with which, as Harlequin and < Columbine, they are to entrance the soul of the little ones on Boxing Night. The soubrette (Mrs Gregory Buffin) is at the back of the stage with some two dozen children putting them through a series of evolutions—announced on the bills as ‘ A Grand Juvenile Ballet ! Performed entirely by Natives of Holydace.’ There is the popular low comedian who is to play Clown, looking anxiously after his scanty array of properties, for, as usual, the property man has been up night and day working at the Grand Processions, etc., etc., and there has been no time to look after the Harlequinade ; so < Jregory Bullin grumbles under his breath, and daubs away at his hot poker ami his string of sausages, giving every now and then a look of encouragement at little Mrs Gregory 8., driven almost to despair by the untractable nature of the material which forms the whole corps </<■ ballet. The scene painter is slap-dashing at the Realms of Delight, and little particles of Dutch metal are floating in the air. The band is banging away at the ‘ Triumphal March,’ and there is hammering, hammering everywhere—-in the pit, in the boxes, under the stage, over the stage, ami on the stage, for, as space is limited in the Theatre Royal, Holydace, and time (considering the work to be done before Boxing-Night) equally so, both must be economized. The manager, ‘The Guv’nor ’ as the company call him, is at the front of the stage with eyes ami ears everywhere. ‘ A little quicker, and more spirit !’ (This to the band.) ‘ Forte with the cornet ! Is that drum playing, or is it not ?' ‘ Where is your wand, Miss Gauzekin ?’ • That can't be right. Wood does not and never did rhyme with love. What rs the line, prompter? Of course.’ ‘ Take that child away from the glue-pot.’ ‘ Joe ! Go up to my room and bring me down some green foil, and I will dodge up this demon’s head.’ ‘Eh ? Certainly you can wear pink tights if you like them better.’ ‘ No, little one ; I have not got your shoes. Ask Mrs Wraggs for them.’ ‘That’s wrong; try that song again. Yes, all through! Ito let us get it right. Tom, have you finished that dummy babv yet ?’ ‘ What on earth is this? Bird of Paradise, indeed! Looks like a boiled owl ; lengthen the tail and dash a little colour into it. I didn’t ask for a scarecrow.’ ‘ Don't bother any more over that dance, Miss Emmie; you must be tired out, ami it’s sure to go.’ '/.allies! /.allies!! Do leave off laughing ami talking,

and save your voices for your songs. If you would but be as loud on the stage as you are off!’ ‘ What is it ? Eh ? How can I see a stranger in the middle of this muddle ? Looks hard up ! Of course. Well, bring him on the stage, I'll try to snatch a moment for him.’ And on ‘ The Guv’nor ’ goes. Timidly round the corner of the wings a pale, wan face is peering, a pair of brown, wistful eyes gaze anxiously on * The Guv’nor.’ Their owner waits to be called, but in the whirl of thinking for everybody * The Guv’nor ’ has forgotten the man he has sent for, till presently his eye lights on the strange, woe-begone face. * Who’s that? Oh, of course. Ask him to come here.’ A figure in seedy black limps painfully forward ; a man, and a gentleman, ‘ The Guv’nor ’ thinks, for his quick eyes take in the whole of the man’s character at a glance. A threadbare coat is held by a cold blue hand trembling round the shirtless throat, while the other hand lifts courteously a battered hat as he approaches ; the boots, from which the snow is thawing with the heat of the footlights, are old and worn—one hole to let the water in, another to let it out. And the face and the face '. ‘ Poor fellow !’ thinks • The Guv’nor.’ ‘Who and what are you? No drink there ; only poverty, misery and hopeless friendlessness.’ ‘ What is it ?’ ‘Mr Burton, I believe?’ The question is asked with a hollow though still musical voice, with a trained, cultivated accent. ‘I am very sorry to intrude upon you at a time like this, lut I thought it just possible there might be a small part still unfilled, or if not, that there might be a chance for me even as a super.’ The soul of the man seems to look out hungrily from the large brown eyes, and ‘ The Guv’nor ’ feels a small lump in his throat as lie watches the sorrow of the face and the look of yearning hunger—hunger for food, hunger for friendship, companionship and love. The man is starving, he thinks, as he asks, ‘Do you belong to Holydace?’ ‘ No, sir, I have walked to-day from Barsfield, twelve miles away. ’ ‘ What is your name ?’ ‘ Henry Gray. ’ ‘Assumed,’ thinks ‘ The Guv’nor,’ kindly refraining from further questioning, anil, with a lie (for which forgive him) lie says, ‘ Yes, there is a small part in—let me see —the sixth scene, which I shall be glad to give you. Of course the salary is small, but everything will be found for you, and it may suit you till something better turns up.’ The poor wan face quivers, and tears are in the quiet brown eyes. ‘ Oh, thank you, sir. I shall never forget your kind ’ Rather hurriedly ‘ The Guv’nor’ breaks in with : ‘ Treasury was held this morning, but there is half a week's salary in advance. Go and get a lodging and something to eat; be back in an hour and I will rehearse you in the part. Excuse me now.’ ‘ The < fuv’nor’ sits at the prompt table, and with a quick inward question of ‘ Where can I put him?’ he pulls out a pencil, bites it, and scribbles off a few lines of doggerel, hands it to the prompter to copy into the manuscript of the pantomime and calls for the property man. ‘ Tom ? \\ here’s that comic mask ? that one with the wide, laughing mouth ? Yes, that’s it.’ M hat a mask ! One of Dyk-Wyn-Kyn’s funniest. The whole face is one huge, droll, uncontrollable laugh. The rehearsal proceeds and in less than half an hour MrGray returns. He has had a meal, and there is a look of thankfulness, if not content in his face. The prompter hands him the parts and asks him to try on the mask. He does so, and the effect is queer, odd, painful—the thin, starved figrue, the poor, cold hands, the threadbare clothes, and the jolly, well-fed, uproariously laughing, exaggerated head, under the weight of which the man almost staggers in his weakness. On goes the rehearsal. One by one ‘ the boys ’ go up to and speak to the stranger. Actors are quick to read the signs of real trouble, and by the time Mr Gray is called for his scene, they have made him feel to a certain extent one of themselves, and are cracking jokes for his amusement, an attention which he accepts gratefully, and joins in with quietly. Some comic music is played, and Mr Gray is called upon to deliver the result of ‘ The Gov’nor’s’ ‘inspiration ’ which has produced the following :— ‘Our King is coming ; greet him with a cheer; Let him sec nought but pleasure dwelleth here : Sing, shout and dance—to look your jolliest try, do. Laugh till you’re sides ache—enjoy yourselves as I do.’ He speaks his lines feebly through the mask, and asks if lie can be of any further assistance. ‘ No, thank you,’says ‘The Guv’nor,’ thinking to himself, ‘ You have as much to do as your strength can compass.’ ‘You can go.’ Still Mr Gray lingers, the band is playing, the footlights are blazing. With the theatre there is light, life, companionship ; without, darkness, the snow and loneliness, and so he lingers until almost the last; and as he goes one of ‘ the boys ’ says, ‘ Give us a call to-mor-row, laddie. It’s Christmas Day and we’ll have a glass and asmoke together. That’s my address.’ Mr Gray grasps the offered hand gratefully, and says, ‘ Thank Heaven, I am animal friends at last.’ With another bow of thanks to ’ The Guv’nor’ he is gone. Boxing Night has come, and the Theatre Royal, Holydace, is packed from floor to ceiling with an excited, expectant holiday audience. All goes swimmingly. All right up to the sixth scene, in which Mr Gray is to appear. The poor fellow, in his anxiety, was dressed before the rising of the curtain, trying to help when and where he could. But now he is leaning against the wings, looking ghastly pale, with large blue circles under his eyes, and that comic mask is at his feet, grinning at his weakness. With an evident effort he pulls himself together as his cue comes, and with a struggle hoists the mask over his head and totters on to the stage. The mask provokes a roar of laughter, which Gray does not hear, for there is a singing in his ears and a mist before his eyes. He staggers, struggles to speak, and falls. Another roar of laughter from the audience, who accept the fall as part of the fun ; and no wonder, for that comic mask is still laughing its hardest, and they don’t see the death-stricken face beneath it. The man is supporting himself with one hand on the stage, and with the other he is vainly trying to lift the mask, which is now almost stifling him. Heis trembling violently,and the audience still laugh, for with that comic mask the trembling heightens the

ludicrous effect, and the whole figure seems to be shaking with merriment. * The Guv’nor ’knows lietter, and calls to Gregory Buttin : ‘Quick, Greg., carry that poor fellow off the stage ; he is fainting.’ Gregory bounds on with a gag, tenderly lifts up the fallen man, and brings him to the wings. ‘ The Guv’nor ’ pulls off the mask and carries him to a dressing-room ‘ Send for some brandy and a cab ; get him to his lodgings, and put him into a warm bed ; get a doctor, and let him have anything he wants,’says ‘The Guv’nor.’ Poor Gray is earned to his humble lodging, where the warmhearted Yorkshire matron receives him with, ‘ Eh, lad, but I thowt tha’ wert wrong to go out. Come in, do ; get him i’ bed, while I light t’ fire and get him some hot gruel.’ Poor Gray is carried to the bedroom muttering half unconsciously that he ‘is better, and is sure to be all right for to-morrow night. ’ ‘Was ‘‘The Guv’nor” very angry at the mess he had made of his part ?’ And then he begins to wander, and repeats the doggerel dreamily : ‘Sing, shout and dance, to look your jolliest try, do. Laugh till your sides ache, enjoy yourself as I do.' At the theatre, on goes the pantomime with roar after roar till the curtain tails, when some of ‘the boys’ dtess hurriedly and go to Giay’s lodgings to inquire after, and, if necessary, to sit up with him. But the doctor lias been there and has given orders that no one is to see him. Then they ‘ will come round in the morning.’ But by the morning Gray, who has been delirious all night, has been taken by the doctor’s orders to the hospital, where ‘ the boys ’ are not allowed to see him. For three days the poor fellow tosses in wild delirium at times they have to hold him down. He ‘ will go on for his part,’ he raves. And with wearisome monotony of intonation he repeats the lines :— ‘Sing, shout and dance, to look your jolliest try, do. Laugh till your sides ache, enjoy yourself as I do !’ Over and over again the jingle is repeated, and every now and then there is a tender, plaintive call for ‘ Gracie. ’ Gracie ? A’ho was she ? Who is she ? Is she living still? What was the link that bound the two together? What was the blow that snapped the link asunder, and sent this poor waif to wander over the earth, homeless and alone ? On the third evening (as they are lighting the footlights at the theatre) a calm comes over poor Gray in the hospital ; he has been still for a long time, and the nurse who is watching him sees the large brown eyes unclose and look round feebly, wonderingly. ‘ Where am I?’ asks Gray. Kindly the nurse tells him of his illness. ‘ I shall lose my engagement,’ he moans. ‘ No, no ! “ The Guv’nor ” has sent word that you are not to worry. Your salary will be paid all the same, and he, and all the company send their best wishes for your recovery, and a Happy New Year.’ ‘ Thank God there's somebody thinking of me,' comes with a sob in a whisper from the bed, and the poor face, on which the death-dew is gathering, is turned slowly to the wall. Quite quiet and still he lies ; no more tossing, no more muttering. ‘He sleeps at last,’ thinks the nurse, and she leaves him for a time. When she returns he has not moved. She looks closer. He is dead. At the theatre they have just reached scene sixth of the pantomime, but Gray’s part is cut out. Gray is gone. Whither ? May we hope that he is ‘ Among friends at last.’ New Year’s moin, and the sun is shining, shining gaily on the frozen snow ; and on the frozen branches the frost beads glisten like myriads of diamonds in its bright clear rays. Over the town the sun is shining ; over the factories, whose tall chimneys seem to lie vomiting their blackest smoke in vain endeavours to cloud his brightness ; over the church and over the theatre it gleams with most impartial splendour ; over God’s acre, on the hillside yonder, the sun is shining, making it look less bleak and cold, preparing, it seemed, a welcome to the newcomer, who was to finish his earthly pilgrimage in the six feet of ground the company had clubbed together to buy for the stranger. Slowly up the hill a procession is toiling, while the passing bell booms out its monotonous ‘ Come !’ ‘ Come !’ Come !’ Up the hill into the little chapel the company gather. All are there ; the harlequin, the columbine, the clown, the pantaloon—from ‘ The Guv’nor ’ to the call-boy, all are there, listening to the voice of the preacher. ‘ I am the resurrection and the life.' saith the Lord. Firmly as the first words are uttered, the voice is wavering and broken before he finishes, and his eyes, and those of all present are dimmed with tears. Out of the chapel on to the hillside, still covered with glistening snow, there is a fresh track of footsteps yonder, and that track is followed by a little band of mourners till they reach the new-made grave. Bound it all reverently kneel with uncovered heads. ‘ Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ almost sobs the priest, for he knows all that is known of the wanderer, and the story — meagre though it is—has touched him deeply. Kind hands drop winter flowers upon the coffin, long lingering looks are given at the plain name-plate and its inscription :— HENRY GRAY, DIED DECEMBER '29th, 187— And then slowly all descend the hill, talking quietly and wondering deeply over the history of ‘ the dear brother departed, whose body they had committed unto the ground.’ Who was he ? Whence came he ? They never knew. Only a packet of letters tied with a faded ribbon, written in a woman s hand, undated and without address, signed simply ‘Gracie,’was found upon him and was buried with him. Who was he ? Nobody knew, nobody cared, except the players and the priest. ‘ The Guv’nor ’ went sadly to the theatre, and picked up that comic mask and put it in the fire. The face was turned upwaids, laughing still. The higher the blaze grew the more it laughed. It revelled in the Haines, it crackled with glee ; but the end came at last, the laugh was extinguished. ‘ Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’ A handful of charred cinders in the grate, a large Hake of tinder caught by the updraught, and whirled heavenward through the chimney, was the last ‘ The Guv’nor ’ saw of ‘ That Comic Mask. ’