"I have not read that paper on the looking-glass," replied Clarence,whose chief fault as a conversationalist was that he was perhaps ashade too Ollendorfian. "But I know its contents."
"It's a lie!" roared the Grand Duke. "An infamous lie! I've a good mindto have him up for libel. I know very well he got them to put thoseparagraphs in, if he didn't write them himself."
"Professional jealousy," said Clarence, with a sigh, "is a very sadthing."
"I'll professional jealousy him!"
"I hear," said Clarence casually, "that he _has_ been going verywell at the Lobelia. A friend of mine who was there last night told mehe took eleven calls."
For a moment the Russian General's face swelled apoplectically. Then herecovered himself with a tremendous effort.
"Wait!" he said, with awful calm. "Wait till to-morrow night! I'll showhim! Went very well, did he? Ha! Took eleven calls, did he? Oh, ha, ha!And he'll take them to-morrow night, too! Only"--and here his voicetook on a note of fiendish purpose so terrible that, hardened scout ashe was, Clarence felt his flesh creep--"only this time they'll becatcalls!"
And, with a shout of almost maniac laughter, the jealous artiste flunghimself into a chair, and began to pull off his boots.
Clarence silently withdrew. The hour was very near.
Chapter 7
THE BIRD
The Grand Duke Vodkakoff was not the man to let the grass grow underhis feet. He was no lobster, no flat-fish. He did it now--swift,secret, deadly--a typical Muscovite. By midnight his staff had theirorders.
Those orders were for the stalls at the Lobelia.
Price of entrance to the gallery and pit was served out at daybreak tothe Eighth and Fifteenth Cossacks of the Don, those fierce,semi-civilised fighting-machines who know no fear.
Grand Duke Vodkakoff's preparations were ready.
* * * * *
Few more fortunate events have occurred in the history of Englishliterature than the quite accidental visit of Mr. Bart Kennedy to theLobelia on that historic night. He happened to turn in there casuallyafter dinner, and was thus enabled to see the whole thing from start tofinish. At a quarter to eleven a wild-eyed man charged in at the mainentrance of Carmelite House, and, too impatient to use the lift, dashedup the stairs, shouting for pens, ink and paper.
Next morning the _Daily Mail_ was one riot of headlines. The wholeof page five was given up to the topic. The headlines were not elusive.They flung the facts at the reader:--
SCENE AT THE LOBELIA PRINCE OTTO OF SAXE-PFENNIG GIVEN THE BIRD BY RUSSIAN SOLDIERS WHAT WILL BE THE OUTCOME?
There were about seventeen more, and then came Mr. Bart Kennedy'sspecial report.
He wrote as follows:--
"A night to remember. A marvellous night. A night such as few will seeagain. A night of fear and wonder. The night of September the eleventh.Last night.
"Nine-thirty. I had dined. I had eaten my dinner. My dinner! Soinextricably are the prose and romance of life blended. My dinner! Ihad eaten my dinner on this night. This wonderful night. This night ofSeptember the eleventh. Last night!
"I had dined at the club. A chop. A boiled potato. Mushrooms on toast.A touch of Stilton. Half-a-bottle of Beaune. I lay back in my chair. Idebated within myself. A Hall? A theatre? A book in the library? Thatnight, the night of September the eleventh, I as near as a toucherspent in the library of my club with a book. That night! The night ofSeptember the eleventh. Last night!
"Fate took me to the Lobelia. Fate! We are its toys. Its footballs. Weare the footballs of Fate. Fate might have sent me to the Gaiety. Fatetook me to the Lobelia. This Fate which rules us.
"I sent in my card to the manager. He let me through. Ever courteous.He let me through on my face. This manager. This genial and courteousmanager.
"I was in the Lobelia. A dead-head. I was in the Lobelia as adead-head!"
Here, in the original draft of the article, there are reflections, atsome length, on the interior decorations of the Hall, and an excursuson music-hall performances in general. It is not till he comes toexamine the audience that Mr. Kennedy returns to the main issue.
"And what manner of audience was it that had gathered together to viewthe entertainment provided by the genial and courteous manager of theLobelia? The audience. Beyond whom there is no appeal. The Caesars ofthe music-hall. The audience."
At this point the author has a few extremely interesting and thoughtfulremarks on the subject of audiences. These may be omitted. "In thestalls I noted a solid body of Russian officers. These soldiers fromthe Steppes. These bearded men. These Russians. They sat silent andwatchful. They applauded little. The programme left them cold. TheTrick Cyclist. The Dashing Soubrette and Idol of Belgravia. TheArgumentative College Chums. The Swell Comedian. The Man with thePerforming Canaries. None of these could rouse them. They were waiting.Waiting. Waiting tensely. Every muscle taut. Husbanding their strength.Waiting. For what?
"A man at my side told a friend that a fellow had told him that he hadbeen told by a commissionaire that the pit and gallery were full ofRussians. Russians. Russians everywhere. Why? Were they genuine patronsof the Halls? Or were they there from some ulterior motive? There wasan air of suspense. We were all waiting. Waiting. For what?
"The atmosphere is summed up in a word. One word. Sinister. Theatmosphere was sinister.
"AA! A stir in the crowded house. The ruffling of the face of the seabefore a storm. The Sisters Sigsbee, Coon Delineators and UnrivalledBurlesque Artists, have finished their dance, smiled, blown kisses,skipped off, skipped on again, smiled, blown more kisses, anddisappeared. A long chord from the orchestra. A chord that is almost awail. A wail of regret for that which is past. Two liveried menialsappear. They carry sheets of cardboard. These menials carry sheets ofcardboard. But not blank sheets. On each sheet is a number.
"The number 15.
"Who is number 15?
"Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig. Prince Otto, General of the German Army.Prince Otto is Number 15.
"A burst of applause from the house. But not from the Russians. Theyare silent. They are waiting. For what?
"The orchestra plays a lively air. The massive curtains part. A tall,handsome military figure strides on to the stage. He bows. This tall,handsome, military man bows. He is Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig, Generalof the Army of Germany. One of our conquerors.
"He begins to speak. 'Ladies and gentlemen.' This man, this general,says, 'Ladies and gentlemen.'
"But no more. No more. No more. Nothing more. No more. He says, 'Ladiesand Gentlemen,' but no more.
"And why does he say no more? Has he finished his turn? Is that all hedoes? Are his eight hundred and seventy-five pounds a week paid him forsaying, 'Ladies and Gentlemen'?
"No!
"He would say more. He has more to say. This is only the beginning.This tall, handsome man has all his music still within him.
"Why, then, does he say no more? Why does he say 'Ladies andGentlemen,' but no more? No more. Only that. No more. Nothing more. Nomore.
"Because from the stalls a solid, vast, crushing 'Boo!' is hurled athim. From the Russians in the stalls comes this vast, crushing 'Boo!'It is for this that they have been waiting. It is for this that theyhave been waiting so tensely. For this. They have been waiting for thiscolossal 'Boo!'
"The General retreats a step. He is amazed. Startled. Perhapsfrightened. He waves his hands.
"From gallery and pit comes a hideous whistling and howling. The noiseof wild beasts. The noise of exploding boilers. The noise of amusic-hall audience giving a performer the bird.
"Everyone is standing on his feet. Some on mine. Everyone is shouting.This vast audience is shouting.
"Words begin to emerge from the babel.
"'Get offski! Rotten turnovitch!' These bearded Russians, these sterncritics, shout, 'Rotten turnovitch!'
"Fire shoots from the eyes of the German. This strong man's eyes.
"'Get offski! Swankietoff! Rot
ten turnovitch!'
"The fury of this audience is terrible. This audience. This last courtof appeal. This audience in its fury is terrible.
"What will happen? The German stands his ground. This man of blood andiron stands his ground. He means to go on. This strong man. He means togo on if it snows.
"The audience is pulling up the benches. A tomato shatters itself onthe Prince's right eye. An over-ripe tomato.
"'Get offski!' Three eggs and a cat sail through the air. Fallingshort, they drop on to the orchestra. These eggs! This cat! They fallon the conductor and the second trombone. They fall like the gentle dewfrom Heaven upon the place beneath. That cat! Those eggs!
"AA! At last the stage-manager--keen, alert, resourceful--saves thesituation. This man. This stage-manager. This man with the big brain.Slowly, inevitably, the fireproof curtain falls. It is half-way down.It is down. Before it, the audience. The audience. Behind it, thePrince. The Prince. That general. That man of iron. That performer whohas just got the bird.
"The Russian National Anthem rings through the hall. Thunderous!Triumphant! The Russian National Anthem. A paean of joy.
"The menials reappear. Those calm, passionless menials. They remove thenumber fifteen. They insert the number sixteen. They are likeDestiny--Pitiless, Unmoved, Purposeful, Silent. Those menials.
"A crash from the orchestra. Turn number sixteen has begun...."
Chapter 8
THE MEETING AT THE SCOTCH STORES
Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig stood in the wings, shaking in every limb.German oaths of indescribable vigour poured from his lips. In a groupsome feet away stood six muscular, short-sleeved stage-hands. It wasthey who had flung themselves on the general at the fall of the ironcurtain and prevented him dashing round to attack the stalls with hissabre. At a sign from the stage-manager they were ready to do it again.
The stage-manager was endeavouring to administer balm.
"Bless you, your Highness," he was saying, "it's nothing. It's whathappens to everyone some time. Ask any of the top-notch pros. Ask 'emwhether they never got the bird when they were starting. Why, even nowsome of the biggest stars can't go to some towns because they alwayscop it there. Bless you, it----"
A stage-hand came up with a piece of paper in his hand.
"Young feller in spectacles and a rum sort o' suit give me this foryour 'Ighness."
The Prince snatched it from his hand.
The note was written in a round, boyish hand. It was signed, "AFriend." It ran:--"The men who booed you to-night were sent for thatpurpose by General Vodkakoff, who is jealous of you because of theparagraphs in the _Encore_ this week."
Prince Otto became suddenly calm.
"Excuse me, your Highness," said the stage-manager anxiously, as hemoved, "you can't go round to the front. Stand by, Bill."
"Right, sir!" said the stage-hands.
Prince Otto smiled pleasantly.
"There is no danger. I do not intend to go to the front. I am going tolook in at the Scotch Stores for a moment."
"Oh, in that case, your Highness, good-night, your Highness! Betterluck to-morrow, your Highness!"
* * * * *
It had been the custom of the two generals, since they had joined themusic-hall profession, to go, after their turn, to the Scotch Stores,where they stood talking and blocking the gangway, as etiquette demandsthat a successful artiste shall.
The Prince had little doubt but that he would find Vodkakoff thereto-night.
He was right. The Russian general was there, chatting affably acrossthe counter about the weather.
He nodded at the Prince with a well-assumed carelessness.
"Go well to-night?" he inquired casually.
Prince Otto clenched his fists; but he had had a rigorously diplomaticup-bringing, and knew how to keep a hold on himself. When he spoke itwas in the familiar language of diplomacy.
"The rain has stopped," he said, "but the pavements are still wetunderfoot. Has your grace taken the precaution to come out in a goodstout pair of boots?"
The shaft plainly went home, but the Grand Duke's manner, as hereplied, was unruffled.
"Rain," he said, sipping his vermouth, "is always wet; but sometimes itis cold as well."
"But it never falls upwards," said the Prince, pointedly.
"Rarely, I understand. Your powers of observation are keen, my dearPrince."
There was a silence; then the Prince, momentarily baffled, returned tothe attack.
"The quickest way to get from Charing Cross to Hammersmith Broadway,"he said, "is to go by Underground."
"Men have died in Hammersmith Broadway," replied the Grand Dukesuavely.
The Prince gritted his teeth. He was no match for his slipperyadversary in a diplomatic dialogue, and he knew it.
"The sun rises in the East," he cried, half-choking, "but it sets--itsets!"
"So does a hen," was the cynical reply.
The last remnants of the Prince's self-control were slipping away. Thiselusive, diplomatic conversation is a terrible strain if one is not inthe mood for it. Its proper setting is the gay, glittering ball-room atsome frivolous court. To a man who has just got the bird at amusic-hall, and who is trying to induce another man to confess that thething was his doing, it is little short of maddening.
"Hen!" he echoed, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Have youstudied the habits of hens?"
The truth seemed very near to him now, but the master-diplomat beforehim was used to extracting himself from awkward corners.
"Pullets with a southern exposure," he drawled, "have yellow legs andripen quickest."
The Prince was nonplussed. He had no answer.
The girl behind the bar spoke.
"You do talk silly, you two!" she said.
It was enough. Trivial as the remark was, it was the last straw. ThePrince brought his fist down with a crash on the counter.
"Yes," he shouted, "you are right. We do talk silly; but we shall do sono longer. I am tired of this verbal fencing. A plain answer to a plainquestion. Did you or did you not send your troops to give me the birdto-night?"
"My dear Prince!"
The Grand Duke raised his eyebrows.
"Did you or did you not?"
"The wise man," said the Russian, still determined on evasion, "nevertakes sides, unless they are sides of bacon."
The Prince smashed a glass.
"You did!" he roared. "I know you did! Listen to me! I'll give you onechance. I'll give you and your precious soldiers twenty-four hours frommidnight to-night to leave this country. If you are still herethen----"
He paused dramatically.
The Grand Duke slowly drained his vermouth.
"Have you seen my professional advertisement in the _Era_, my dearPrince?" he asked.
"I have. What of it?"
"You noticed nothing about it?"
"I did not."
"Ah. If you had looked more closely, you would have seen the words,'Permanent address, Hampstead.'"
"You mean----"
"I mean that I see no occasion to alter that advertisement in any way."
There was another tense silence. The two men looked hard at each other.
"That is your final decision?" said the German.
The Russian bowed.
"So be it," said the Prince, turning to the door. "I have the honour towish you a very good night."
"The same to you," said the Grand Duke. "Mind the step."
Chapter 9
THE GREAT BATTLE
The news that an open rupture had occurred between the Generals of thetwo invading armies was not slow in circulating. The early editions ofthe evening papers were full of it. A symposium of the opinions of Dr.Emil Reich, Dr. Saleeby, Sandow, Mr. Chiozza Money, and Lady Grove washastily collected. Young men with knobbly and bulging foreheads wereturned on by their editors to write character-sketches of the twogenerals. All was stir and activity.
Meanwhile, those who look af
ter London's public amusements were busywith telephone and telegraph. The quarrel had taken place on Fridaynight. It was probable that, unless steps were taken, the battle wouldbegin early on Saturday. Which, it did not require a man of unusualintelligence to see, would mean a heavy financial loss to those whosupplied London with its Saturday afternoon amusements. The matineeswould suffer. The battle might not affect the stalls and dress-circle,perhaps, but there could be no possible doubt that the pit and galleryreceipts would fall off terribly. To the public which supports the pitand gallery of a theatre there is an irresistible attraction about afight on anything like a large scale. When one considers that a quiteordinary street-fight will attract hundreds of spectators, it will beplainly seen that no theatrical entertainment could hope to competeagainst so strong a counter-attraction as a battle between the Germanand Russian armies.
The various football-grounds would be heavily hit, too. And there wasto be a monster roller-skating carnival at Olympia. That also would bespoiled.
A deputation of amusement-caterers hurried to the two camps within anhour of the appearance of the first evening paper. They put their caseplainly and well. The Generals were obviously impressed. Messagespassed and repassed between the two armies, and in the end it wasdecided to put off the outbreak of hostilities till Monday morning.
* * * * *
Satisfactory as this undoubtedly was for the theatre-managers anddirectors of football clubs, it was in some ways a pity. From thestandpoint of the historian it spoiled the whole affair. But for thepostponement, readers of this history might--nay, would--have been ableto absorb a vivid and masterly account of the great struggle, with acareful description of the tactics by which victory was achieved. Theywould have been told the disposition of the various regiments, thestratagems, the dashing advances, the skilful retreats, and the Lessonsof the War.
The Swoop! or, How Clarence Saved England: A Tale of the Great Invasion Page 5
