John Galsworthy
   
                The Broken Boot


Файл с книжной полки Несененко Алексея
OCR: Несененко Алексей январь 2004

   
   The actor, Gilbert Caister, who had been "out" for six months, 
emerged from his east-coast seaside lodging about noon in the day, 
after the opening of "Shooting the Rapids", on tour, in which he was 
playing Dr Dominick in the last act. A salary of four pounds a week 
would not, he was conscious, remake his fortunes, but a certain 
jauntiness had returned to the gait and manner of one employed again 
at last.
   Fixing his monocle, he stopped before a fishmonger's and, with a 
faint smile on his face, regarded a lobster. Ages since he had eaten a 
lobster! One could long for a lobster without paying, but the pleasure 
was not solid enough to detain him. He moved upstreet and stopped 
again, before a tailor's window. Together with the actual tweeds, in 
which he could so easily fancy himself refitted, he could see a 
reflection of himself, in the faded brown suit wangled out of the 
production of "Marmaduke Mandeville" the year before the war. The 
sunlight in this damned town was very strong, very hard on seams and 
buttonholes, on knees and elbows! Yet he received the ghost of 
aesthetic pleasure from the reflected elegance of a man long fed only 
twice a day, of an eyeglass well rimmed out from a soft brown eye, of 
a velour hat salved from the production of "Educating Simon" in 1912; 
and in front of the window he removed that hat, for under it was his 
new phenomenon, not yet quite evaluated, his mйche blanche.
   Was it an asset, or the beginning of the end? It reclined backwards 
on the right side, conspicuous in his dark hair, above that shadowy 
face always interesting to Gilbert Caister. They said it came from 
atrophy of the - something nerve, an effect of the war, or of 
undernourished tissue. Rather distinguished, perhaps, but-!
   He walked on, and became conscious that he had passed a face he 
knew. Turning, he saw it also turn on a short and dapper figure - a 
face rosy, bright, round, with an air of cherubic knowledge, as of a 
getter-up of amateur theatricals.
   Bryce-Green, by George!
   "Caister? It is! Haven't seen you since you left the old camp. 
Remember what sport we had over 'Gotta-Grampus'? By Jove! I am glad 
to see you. Doing anything with yourself? Come and have lunch with 
me."
   Bryce-Green, the wealthy patron, the moving spirit of entertainment 
in that south-coast convalescent camp. And drawling slightly, Caister 
answered:
   "I shall be delighted." But within him something did not drawl: "By 
God, you're going to have a feed, my boy!"
   And - elegantly threadbare, roundabout and dapper - the two walked 
side by side.
   "Know this place? Let's go in here! Phyllis, cocktails for my 
friend Mr Caister and myself, and caviare on biscuits. Mr Caister is 
playing here; you must go and see him."
   The girl who served the cocktails and the caviare looked up at 
Caister with interested blue eyes. Precious! - he had been "out" for 
six months!
   "Nothing of a part," he drawled, " took it to fill a gap." And 
below his waistcoat the gap echoed: "Yes, and it'll take some 
filling."
   "Bring your cocktail along, Caister, we'll go into the little 
further room, there'll be nobody there. What shall we have - a 
lobstah?"
   And Caister murmured: "I love lobstahs."
   "Very fine and large here. And how are you, Caister? So awfully 
glad to see you - only real actor we had."
   "Thanks," said Caister, "I'm all right." And he thought: "He's a 
damned amateur, but a nice little man."
   "Sit here. Waiter, bring us a good big lobstah and a salad; and 
then - er - a small fillet of beef with potatoes fried crisp, and a 
bottle of my special hock! Ah! and a rum omelette - plenty of rum and 
sugah. Twig?"
   And Caister thought: "Thank God, I do."
   They had sat down opposite each other at one of two small tables in 
the little recessed room.
   "Luck!" said Bryce-Green.
   "Luck!" replied Caister; and the cocktail trickling down him 
echoed: "Luck!"
   "And what do you think of the state of the drama?"
   Oh! ho! A question after his own heart. Balancing his monocle by a 
sweetish smile on the opposite side of his mouth, Caister drawled his 
answer: "Quite too bally awful!"
   "H'm! Yes," said Bryce-Green; "nobody with any genius, is there?"
   And Caister thought: "Nobody with any money."
   "Have you been playing anything great? You were so awfully good in 
' Gotta-Grampus'!"
   " Nothing particular. I've been - er - rather slack." And with 
their feel around his waist his trousers seemed to echo: "Slack!"
   "Ah!" said Bryce-Green. "Here we are! Do you like claws? "
   "Tha-a-nks. Anything!" To eat - until warned by the pressure of his 
waist against his trousers! What a feast! And what a flow of his own 
tongue suddenly released - on drama, music, art; mellow and critical, 
stimulated by the round eyes and interjections of his little 
provincial host.
   "By Jove, Caister! You've got a mйche blanche. Never noticed. I'm 
awfully interested in mйches blanches. Don't think me too frightfully 
rude - but did it come suddenly? "
   "No, gradually."
   "And how do you account for it?"
   "Try starvation," trembled on Caister's lips.
   "I don't," he said.
   "I think it's ripping. Have some more omelette? I often wish I'd 
gone on the regular stage myself. Must be a topping life, if one has 
talent, like you."
   Topping?
   "Have a cigar. Waiter! Coffee, and cigars. I shall come and see you 
tonight. Suppose you'll be here a week? "
   Topping! The laughter and applause - "Mr Caister's rendering left 
nothing to be desired; its - and its - are in the true spirit of - !"
   Silence recalled him from his rings of smoke. Bryce-Green was 
sitting, with cigar held out and mouth a little open, and bright eyes 
round as pebbles, fixed - fixed on some object near the floor, past 
the corner of the tablecloth. Had he burnt his mouth? The eyelids 
fluttered; he looked at Caister, licked his lips like a dog, nervously 
and said:
   "I say, old chap, don't think me a beast, but are you at all - er - 
er - rocky? I mean - if I can be of any service, don't hesitate! Old 
acquaintance, don't you know, and all that - "
   His eyes rolled out again towards the object, and Caister followed 
them. Out there above the carpet he saw it - his own boot. It dangled 
slightly, six inches off the ground - split - right across, twice, 
between lace and toecap. Quite! He knew it. A boot left him from the 
role of Bertie Carstairs, in "The Dupe," just before the war. Good 
boots. His only pair, except the boots of Dr Dominick, which he was 
nursing. And from the boot he looked back at Bryce-Green, sleek and 
concerned. Adrop, black when it left his heart, suffused his eye 
behind the monocle; his smile curled bitterly; he said:
   "Not at all, thanks! Why?"
   "Oh, n-n-nothing. It just occurred to me." His eyes - but Caister 
had withdrawn the boot. Bryce-Green paid the bill and rose.
   "Old chap, if you'll excuse me; engagement at half past two. So 
awf'ly glad to have seen you. Good-bye!"
   "Good-bye!" said Caister. "Thanks."
   He was alone. And, chin on hand, he stared through his monocle into 
an empty coffee cup. Alone with his heart, his boot, his life to 
come... "And what have you been in lately, Mr Caister?" "Nothing very 
much lately. Of course I've played almost everything." "Quite so. 
Perhaps you'11 leave your address; can't say anything definite, I'm 
afraid." "I - I should - er - be willing to rehearse on approval; or - 
if I could the part?" "Thank you, afraid we haven't got as far as 
that." "No? Quite! Well, I shall hear from you, perhaps." And Caister 
could see his own eyes looking at the manager. God! What a look!... A 
topping life! A dog's life! Cadging - cadging - cadging for work! A 
life of draughty waiting, of concealed beggary, of terrible 
depressions,
   The waiter came skating round as if he desired to clear. Must go! 
Two young women had come in and were sitting at the other table 
between him and the door. He saw them look at him, and his sharpened 
senses caught the whisper:
   "Sure - in the last act. Don't you see his mй   che blanche? "
   "Oh! yes - of course! Isn't it - wasn't he - I"
   Caister straightened his back; his smile crept out, he fixed his 
monocle. They had spotted his Dr Dominick!
   "If you've quite finished, sir, may I clear? "
   "Certainly. I'm going." He gathered himself and rose. The young 
women were gazing up. Elegant, with a faint smile, he passed them 
close, so that they could not see, managing - his broken boot.