Forrester got fair applause for Fortescue’s fine poem, but nothing special. As a matter of fact, he forgot the third verse, which was the best, and doubtless Fortescue felt very sick about it; but he was powerless to do anything, though he never much liked Forrester after.
Then came the grand item, and it was good in every way, and went very smoothly till just the end. Of course, I can’t say anything about my rendition of Shylock--in fact, I didn’t feel I had gripped the audience in the least--but chaps told me you might have heard a pin drop, and nobody recognized me who knew me, and many of the people in the audience thought it was one of the masters, and not a boy at all. Pegram rather overacted the Duke, which is a part that merely wants stateliness, and no acting; but he would act, and so forgot his words and hung us up once or twice. In fact, Pegram was not good; but Antonio, by Saunders, was a very thoughtful performance, and so was Bassanio, by Preston. Percy minor certainly came off as Gratiano, and unfortunately he acted so jolly well that, in one of his fearful scores off me, I forgot the dignified pathos of Shylock, and laughed. It was a new reading, in a way, but I didn’t mean to laugh, and it did a lot of harm, because after that the audience wouldn’t take me seriously, though before, I believe, most of them had. It spoiled the illusion of the scene. Portia, in the hands of Williams, was most beautiful to see, but, from the art point of view, awful. He got out his words, however, and just at the end, before my exit, Minnie Dunston, who had plotted it with him in secret, threw him a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, and the fool picked it up and said out loud: "Thank you, Minnie!" Of course, after that, my exit went for nothing, and when it was over, I punched his head behind the scenes, while in front people were laughing themselves silly. We got two calls, and it shows what a force the drama really is, because in the second half of the programme nobody cared a button about such excellent things as Percy minor’s comic song; and though Towler and Cornwallis were mildly applauded, it was only because they happened to be still alive and not dead; and the lightning calculations of Nicholas didn’t even tempt many men to come away from the refreshments. I dare say many of them were very poor, and had to make so many lightning calculations themselves, owing to the War, that they weren’t specially interested in what Nicholas could do. But for Tracey’s play they all came, and such applause was never heard within the walls of Merivale; which shows that the drama still holds its own. The idea of "The White Feather" was certainly very original, and the dialogue very satirical. As the girl with the white feathers, Williams appeared again--in a dress lent him by Minnie Dunston. This was too small in some places and too big in others; but thanks to a huge female hat and a wig of golden hair, Williams made a very fair flapper, though inches too tall for such a creature. He gave a feather to Captain Maltravers, V.C., from Gallipoli, who was in mufti; and Tracey, with an eyeglass--which he manages fairly well--and a moustache, was frightfully satirical at the flapper’s expense, and every point he made went with a roar. Then the flapper stuck a white feather into the frock-coat of General Sir Champernowne--also in mufti--and he was not satirical, but got into a frightful rage, and gave up the flapper to a policeman. She cried and begged for pardon; and then the V.C. returned, and saved her from the General and the policeman, and promised to marry her after the War.