by Graeme Kent
In the packed street, people soon began to recognise Sandow and made way for him, but progress was still excruciatingly slow. The press was thickest outside the front entrance of the theatre, so the four men, led by Captain Molesworth, asserting the leadership qualities that must have led to the granting of his commission, plunged down a side alley and headed for the stage door.
Inside the theatre, Sampson was still lifting weights with hoarse bellows of self-approbation. His act was polished, if lacking in drama, and he had a good following. In his way, Sampson could be compared with his near contemporary, John L. Sullivan, the heavyweight boxing champion. Just as Sullivan had a claim to being the last of the great bareknuckle champions and also one of the first of the gloved fighters, so Sampson’s strongman career spanned circuses and travelling shows that had their origin in medieval times, and he was about to gain a foothold in the emerging music hall and vaudeville spectacles about to be sparked off by the publicity engendered by this evening’s much-hyped contest with Sandow.
Outside, the crowds continued to jostle around the theatre, demanding to be let in. The Westminster Aquarium, sometimes known as the Royal Aquarium, was a large complex several storeys high, not far from the Houses of Parliament. It was a flourishing establishment with a permanent staff of around three hundred men and women. It catered to the growing Victorian demand for sensationalism in public performances as music hall acts grew ever more spectacular.
The building derived its name from a huge but ill-fated aquarium in its basement. After several diminutive whales had died in the water and a talking walrus had been dismissed for its lack of persuasive coherence, the tank was now used mainly for swimming and diving displays. There were also a number of cafes and restaurants in the building, together with a row of cheapjack stalls and booths, a long promenade frequented every evening by dozens of prostitutes, and the Imperial Theatre itself. Arthur Roberts, a music hall comedian and inventor of the popular card game Spoof, had celebrated in song the slightly more mature charms of some of these avaricious ladies of the night:
I strolled one day to Westminster,
The Royal Aquarium to see,
But I had to stand a bottle
Just to lubricate the throttle
Of a lady who was forty-three.
This hall specialised in eccentric acts, better known as freak shows, and as a result fought a series of running battles against suspicious and censorious local and national licensing authorities. One of its most popular performers was the celebrated Human Cannonball, an acrobat called Zazel. An iron tube on wheels, roughly resembling a cannon, contained in its barrel an assemblage of highly tuned rubber springs designed to propel Zazel into a net on the far side of the stage. The contraption’s resemblance to an artillery piece in action was heightened at the moment of projection by an accompanying spectacular explosion and puff of smoke, which had no connection at all with the workings of the weapon.
Forerunners of Sampson on the Aquarium’s role of honour included the Maravian Wild Women, the Two-Headed Nightingale, Pongo the Gorilla, the Missing Link, the Man with the Elastic Skin and Captain Costentenus, proclaimed as the most heavily tattooed man in the world.
Since its inception, the Royal Aquarium had been a thorn in the flesh of the former Home Secretary R. A. Cross. Throughout the decade the minister seemed to have been embroiled in a series of running battles with Captain Molesworth and his enterprising staff. Upon the completion of the Anglo-Zulu War in 1879, Cross forbade the Aquarium’s intention to import three Zulu princesses, a royal baby, a chief called Incomo and twenty-three assorted warriors from the recently defeated nation to present a series of indigenous dances upon the stage of the Imperial Theatre.
However, Molesworth conducted such a skilful series of public protests that, bowing to public pressure, the Home Secretary reluctantly gave way and allowed the importation of the Farini’s Friendly Zulus, headed by the amazing Princess Amazulu and her entourage. The show was such a success that the Zulu warriors remained in situ for two years, performing three times a day, with displays of singing, dancing and much enthusiastic hurling of assegais (a type of spear) in all directions. Disgruntled rival showmen, however, were heard to mutter that a considerable proportion of the fighting impi had been recruited from the ranks of black seamen discharged for deserting from their vessels at the Port of London.
Mr Cross had also objected, on the grounds of public safety, to Zazel being propelled so violently from the mouth of the cannon onstage. Captain Molesworth had come late to show business from his former maritime duties but was catching on fast when it came to matters of hype. Apparently the management of the theatre had replied by inviting the minister to take the acrobat’s place for one performance. The offer was ignored, but Captain Molesworth contrived to insert copies of the relevant correspondence in the act’s advertising matter. Zazel was allowed to continue, although the performance suffered a brief setback when it was discovered that she had once toured with a strongman troupe as a boy. The pretty teenager’s increasingly curvaceous body, however, left no doubts about her true sex.
Also indisputably a member of the female sex was the well-endowed aerial artiste billed as Zaeo, another cause of friction between Captain Molesworth and his ever-present hovering watchdogs. Only recently the beleaguered manager had emerged successfully from a prolonged dispute with the scandalised members of the Central Vigilance Society for the Repression of Immorality. These ladies had objected to posters revealing the charms of the scantily clad trapeze artist. Molesworth had fought such a masterly delaying campaign against the reform group that most of London’s male population who were interested in such matters had become pleasantly acquainted with the plump Zaeo’s generous displays of flesh, causing her performances to be sold out before the manager had been forced to take down the offending posters.
This evening, with only minutes remaining, Sandow, Fleming, Atilla and Molesworth had reached the stage door, but there was a further complication. A frightened doorkeeper refused them admittance, even when his employer Captain Molesworth joined in the urgent demands from the alley to be let in. Sandow was not about to give up at this late juncture. While his companions made way for him among the cheering crowd the Prussian backed off and then ran at the locked door, hurling his shoulder against it. It was said later that the sound of the shattered hinges could be heard even above the noise of the throng in the street. The door crashed open, bowling over the unfortunate doorman cowering inside the theatre. As Sandow and the others galloped over the prostrate custodian, Fleming dropped a mollifying £10 note on his motionless body.
The panting newcomers entered the auditorium of the music hall so dramatically that the event could have been stage-managed. By this time Sampson had come to the end of his act and his manager was issuing his usual challenge to the audience from the footlights. The strongman, who spoke little English, glowered menacingly in the background. The content of the manager’s speech has not been recorded, but the man must have made play with the fact that so far Sandow had not put in an appearance, because at one point Sampson lumbered forward and shouted, pointing contemptuously, ‘See, he does not come!’
He had spoken too soon. Eugen Sandow and his breathless backers came running down the aisle. The Daily News, perhaps exaggerating, gave an even more hectic version of events: ‘Soon a commotion (was) created by a number of gentlemen reaching the stage by flying leaps from box to box, panting and tousled after fighting their way through the frenzied crowd outside.’
Panic-stricken in case he was too late, Sandow began bellowing in German at his fellow strongman, and Fleming demanded that his charge be allowed up on to the stage. Sampson’s manager refused angrily, declaring that Sandow had arrived too late. Anyway, he went on, his man’s challenge was intended only for amateurs. Sandow was a professional strength athlete. Instead, suggested the manager hopefully, why not let Sandow and Cyclops have a return match for a stake of £1,000 a side? They had already met once onl
y a few days before, when Sandow had won easily.
Fleming refused to be sidetracked. He declared that Sandow had come for the express purpose of competing with Charles Sampson. The spectators, he went on, had turned up in large numbers tonight to witness such a contest. At this the fascinated onlookers broke into cheers, demanding that the bout be got underway.
Captain Molesworth took charge. He hurried up onto the stage and ordered Sampson to meet Sandow’s challenge. The captain was no fool. He had seen irate crowds get out of hand before. He was not going to let this happen at the Imperial if he could help it.
Taking advantage of the distraction provided by the theatre manager’s appearance, Sandow now attempted to run up onto the stage. Sampson saw him coming and stamped over to push his challenger down. The gallant Molesworth broke off his argument with Sampson’s manager to race over to the two strongmen. Courageously, if foolishly, he interspersed himself between Sampson and Sandow. The younger of the two strongmen seemed to be wearing full evening dress and incongruous Roman sandals (a few days earlier, when he had defeated Cyclops, the Prussian had also sported a monocle). Retaining his evening dress trousers he took off his upper garments to reveal the pink singlet of an athletic costume. By this point the enthralled crowd had entered into the spirit of the occasion, cheering every fresh development on the crowded platform.
Finally, Captain Molesworth managed to restore some semblance of order, although the two strongmen were still glaring threateningly at one another. Molesworth walked down to the footlights and addressed the crowd. The contest would take place without further ado, he announced sternly. Would the judges please come up and take their places?
Gravely the Marquess of Queensberry and Lord de Clifford, appointed to oversee the forthcoming trial of strength, took their seats in the centre of the stage. They were said afterwards to have conducted themselves with typical British aplomb. Such a fracas would not have been a novel experience for either peer – both men had been nurtured on a nineteenth-century diet of illegal prizefights and fixed horse races – and beneath their aristocratic veneers they were as tough as old boots.
John Sholto Douglas, eighth Marquess of Queensberry, was smoking a large cigar and wore a customary gardenia in his buttonhole. He had given his name to the first set of regulations to govern gloved fighting and was something of a joiner, having spent much of his life as an inactive member of the army, navy, House of Lords and a variety of gentlemen’s clubs. Six years later he was to achieve notoriety when he instigated the trial and imprisonment of the homosexual playwright Oscar Wilde, after the latter had conducted an affair with Queensberry’s son, the minor poet Lord Alfred Douglas.
De Clifford, ‘Ned’ to his highly placed friends and to absolutely no one else, was a fixture at most major sporting events, often officiating as a judge, stakeholder or timekeeper. Seven years earlier, after a celebrated racing scandal, he had been one of the stewards at the Four Oaks Park meeting who had reported the reprobate ‘Squire’ Abingdon Baird to the National Hunt Committee for foul riding, subsequently securing the warning-off of the inappropriately named gentleman rider.
At last, matters in the hall settled down and the contest got underway. Desperately Sampson picked up several bottles and juggled with them, then he challenged Sandow to emulate this feat. Peremptorily the judges ruled that this had only been an example of dexterity, not strength. As such it could not be entered into the competition.
After some muttering, Sampson grudgingly kicked the bottles away. He picked up an iron bar. In quick succession he struck the rod viciously against his wrists, biceps, calves and neck, bending the bar in a number of directions before throwing it away with a contemptuous glance at his adversary.
Sandow picked up a similar piece of metal and repeated each of the blows just performed by Sampson. His efforts were clumsier than the other man’s had been, but just as effective. While each competitor recovered his breath after these exertions, the ubiquitous Fleming nipped forward cheekily to announce that this had been the first time his charge had attempted the routine.
The crowd applauded appreciatively. Irritably Sampson picked up a leather belt and set himself to tear it in half. Again the judges conferred and then intervened. They declared that only feats of strength involving weights, chains and cables could be attempted.
For a moment it looked as if the enraged Sampson was going to stride over and strike Lord de Clifford, the spokesman for the judges. Effortlessly the peer faced him down. He was no stranger to confrontation and knew how to deal with tough customers like the furious strongman. Indeed, only nine days later de Clifford was to be involved in another sporting controversy. Just as he was about to act as timekeeper for an ill-tempered bareknuckle bout on a muddy field in Flanders, between the black Australian Peter Jackson and the British heavyweight champion Jem Smith (which ended with the Englishman’s disqualification), ‘Parson’ Davies, Jackson’s manager, had objected long and loudly to ‘a bloody lord’ being given such a responsible position. The manager’s objection was to fall upon deaf ears.
The mocking crowd in the Imperial Theatre shouted to the defending champion to get on with it. Sullenly Sampson seized a length of thick wire cable. His manager twisted it into position around the strongman’s chest, securing the cable at the back before stepping back. Sampson took a deep breath, inflated his chest and shattered the wire.
Sandow picked up a similar length of cable. It took Albert Fleming some time to secure it in position behind the young Prussian’s back, but eventually he managed it. Sandow dealt with this latest challenge as summarily as his opponent had done, breaking it in half with one mighty heave of his barrel chest.
Suddenly, Sampson grabbed a bottle from the stage. It was not clear whether he was introducing another exhibition of juggling or was contemplating striking Sandow with the improvised weapon. A cool word of warning from the Marquess of Queensberry was sufficient to cause the strongman to drop the bottle.
It was plain that Sampson was losing his temper. His self-control was not assisted by the taunts of the audience, now solidly behind the young challenger. But the champion was not finished yet. It was time to introduce his speciality. From his manager he took a hinged steel bracelet and attached it around one of his mighty upper arms. Slowly the strongman flexed his biceps. The steel ring shattered and flew apart.
Such an impressive feat of strength temporarily silenced the audience. Somewhat mollified, Sampson tossed a similar bracelet to Eugen Sandow and strode imperiously to the back of the stage.
In vain Sandow struggled to wrap the band around his biceps. It was much too small to go round the Prussian’s arm. Sampson’s manager shouted jubilantly, claiming the victory for his man. With a smirk Albert Fleming reached into his pocket and produced two steel bracelets of his own, which he handed to Sandow. At this, both Sampson and his manager rushed at Fleming. These new bracelets, they complained, were plainly of inferior make. They clamoured for Sandow’s disqualification.
Sandow was mortified. Throughout his professional career he was dismissive of such displays as chain breaking, bottle juggling and coin tearing, referring to them as ‘knacks’ owing more to showmanship and sleight of hand than real strength.
Their lordships hesitated. Fleming saved the day and proved worthy of his percentage by announcing calmly that the concealed bracelets were from the same firm that had manufactured Sampson’s steel rings.
The champion strongman and his manager scoffed at the suggestion. Disdainfully Fleming waved them into silence and motioned to someone sitting in the stalls. This gentleman rose and announced to the cheering audience that he was a representative of the manufacturer in question. Producing an invoice from his wallet he handed the scrap of paper to the judges. Lord de Clifford scanned it and confirmed that the bill did indeed state that Sandow’s bracelets were of the same strength and texture as Sampson’s.
Fleming bowed with smug satisfaction. An astute and streetwise man, he had noticed in Sando
w’s previous contest with Cyclops that the Prussian’s arms were indeed enormous. The agent had guessed correctly that the bracelets employed in his act by Sampson would not fit the challenger and had accordingly ordered the duplicates to be prepared.
Sandow fixed the bracelets around his arms. In stentorian tones, Fleming reminded the audience that Sampson had used but one steel ring. As silence descended, Sandow slowly flexed both arms. At the climax of his grimacing, sweating efforts, the two bracelets splintered and split like children’s toys.
There was a momentary lull in the activity on the stage. Years afterwards, Sandow’s critics claimed that on this occasion, so early in his music hall career, Sandow had proved to be every bit as devious as Sampson when it came to breaking the bracelets on his arms. It was later claimed that the Prussian had planted an accomplice in the audience that evening. Her name was Sarah E. White an attractive American music hall artiste touring Europe as an underwater aquatic act, which she claimed was the first to be undertaken in public by a woman. Her stage name was Lurline, the Water Queen.
According to her story, later given under oath in a court of law, secreted on her lap among the voluminous bags and muffs that evening were two more chain bracelets, almost identical to the ones just produced onstage by Fleming. Sarah claimed that one of the links on each bracelet had already been loosened in order to facilitate their breaking when Sandow flexed his upper arms. Earlier, when Fleming had passed the bracelets among the stalls to be examined, Sarah had surreptitiously substituted the genuine chains for a more brittle pair specially made and doctored for a fee of £20 by a specialist in such matters called Mr Schlag. For good measure, Sarah insisted, Sandow had also asked Mr Schlag to make a number of coins so brittle that they would break easily, in case Sampson included this feat among his challenges.
