P. G. Wodehouse (6 page)

All the other reporters being away on their duties, the editor was at a
loss.

"Isn't there anybody else?" he demanded.

The chief sub-editor pondered.

"There is young blooming Chugwater," he said.

(It was thus that England's deliverer was habitually spoken of in the
office.)

"Then send him," said the editor.

Grand Duke Vodkakoff's turn at the Magnum Palace of Varieties started
every evening at ten sharp. He topped the bill. Clarence, having been
detained by a review of the Scouts, did not reach the hall till five
minutes to the hour. He got to the dressing-room as the general was
going on to the stage.

The Grand Duke dressed in the large room with the other male turns.
There were no private dressing-rooms at the Magnum. Clarence sat down
on a basket-trunk belonging to the Premier Troupe of Bounding Zouaves
of the Desert, and waited. The four athletic young gentlemen who
composed the troupe were dressing after their turn. They took no notice
of Clarence.

Presently one Zouave spoke.

"Bit off to-night, Bill. Cold house."

"Not 'arf," replied his colleague. "Gave me the shivers."

"Wonder how his nibs'll go."

Evidently he referred to the Grand Duke.

"Oh,
'e's
all right. They eat his sort of swank. Seems to me the
profession's going to the dogs, what with these bloomin' amytoors an'
all. Got the 'airbrush, 'Arry?"

Harry, a tall, silent Zouave, handed over the hairbrush.

Bill continued.

"I'd like to see him go on of a Monday night at the old Mogul. They'd
soon show him. It gives me the fair 'ump, it does, these toffs coming
in and taking the bread out of our mouths. Why can't he give us chaps a
chance? Fair makes me rasp, him and his bloomin' eight hundred and
seventy-five o' goblins a week."

"Not so much of your eight hundred and seventy-five, young feller me
lad," said the Zouave who had spoken first. "Ain't you seen the rag
this week?"

"Naow. What's in it? How does our advert, look?"

"Ow, that's all right, never mind that. You look at 'What the
Encore
Would Like to Know.' That's what'll touch his nibs up."

He produced a copy of the paper from the pocket of his great-coat which
hung from the door, and passed it to his bounding brother.

"Read it out, old sort," he said.

The other took it to the light and began to read slowly and cautiously,
as one who is no expert at the art.

"'What the
Encore
would like to know:—Whether Prince Otto of
Saxe-Pfennig didn't go particularly big at the Lobelia last week? And
Whether his success hasn't compelled Agent Quhayne to purchase a
larger-sized hat? And Whether it isn't a fact that, though they are
press-agented at the same figure, Prince Otto is getting fifty a week
more than Grand Duke Vodkakoff? And If it is not so, why a little bird
has assured us that the Prince is being paid five hundred a week and
the Grand Duke only four hundred and fifty? And, In any case, whether
the Prince isn't worth fifty a week more than his Russian friend?'
Lumme!"

An awed silence fell upon the group. To Clarence, who had dictated the
matter (though the style was the editor's), the paragraph did not come
as a surprise. His only feeling was one of relief that the editor had
served up his material so well. He felt that he had been justified in
leaving the more delicate literary work to that master-hand.

"That'll be one in the eye," said the Zouave Harry. "'Ere, I'll stick
it up opposite of him when he comes back to dress. Got a pin and a
pencil, some of you?"

He marked the quarter column heavily, and pinned it up beside the
looking-glass. Then he turned to his companions.

"'Ow about not waiting, chaps?" he suggested. "I shouldn't 'arf wonder,
from the look of him, if he wasn't the 'aughty kind of a feller who'd
cleave you to the bazooka for tuppence with his bloomin' falchion. I'm
goin' to 'urry through with my dressing and wait till to-morrow night
to see how he looks. No risks for Willie!"

The suggestion seemed thoughtful and good. The Bounding Zouaves, with
one accord, bounded into their clothes and disappeared through the door
just as a long-drawn chord from the invisible orchestra announced the
conclusion of the Grand Duke's turn.

General Vodkakoff strutted into the room, listening complacently to the
applause which was still going on. He had gone well. He felt pleased
with himself.

It was not for a moment that he noticed Clarence.

"Ah," he said, "the interviewer, eh? You wish to—"

Clarence began to explain his mission. While he was doing so the Grand
Duke strolled to the basin and began to remove his make-up. He
favoured, when on the stage, a touch of the Raven Gipsy No. 3
grease-paint. It added a picturesque swarthiness to his appearance, and
made him look more like what he felt to be the popular ideal of a
Russian general.

The looking-glass hung just over the basin.

Clarence, watching him in the glass, saw him start as he read the first
paragraph. A dark flush, almost rivalling the Raven Gipsy No. 3, spread
over his face. He trembled with rage.

"Who put that paper there?" he roared, turning.

"With reference, then, to Mr. Hubert Wales's novel," said Clarence.

The Grand Duke cursed Mr. Hubert Wales, his novel, and Clarence in one
sentence.

"You may possibly," continued Clarence, sticking to his point like a
good interviewer, "have read the trenchant, but some say justifiable
remarks of the Rev. Canon Edgar Sheppard, D.D., Sub-Dean of His
Majesty's Chapels Royal, Deputy Clerk of the Closet, and Sub-Almoner to
the King."

The Grand Duke swiftly added that eminent cleric to the list.

"Did you put that paper on this looking-glass?" he shouted.

"I did not put that paper on that looking-glass," replied Clarence
precisely.

"Ah," said the Grand Duke, "if you had, I'd have come and wrung your
neck like a chicken, and scattered you to the four corners of this
dressing-room."

"I'm glad I didn't," said Clarence.

"Have you read this paper on the looking-glass?"

"I have not read that paper on the looking-glass," replied Clarence,
whose chief fault as a conversationalist was that he was perhaps a
shade too Ollendorfian. "But I know its contents."

"It's a lie!" roared the Grand Duke. "An infamous lie! I've a good mind
to have him up for libel. I know very well he got them to put those
paragraphs in, if he didn't write them himself."

"Professional jealousy," said Clarence, with a sigh, "is a very sad
thing."

"I'll professional jealousy him!"

"I hear," said Clarence casually, "that he
has
been going very
well at the Lobelia. A friend of mine who was there last night told me
he took eleven calls."

For a moment the Russian General's face swelled apoplectically. Then he
recovered himself with a tremendous effort.

"Wait!" he said, with awful calm. "Wait till to-morrow night! I'll show
him! 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 voice
took on a note of fiendish purpose so terrible that, hardened scout as
he was, Clarence felt his flesh creep—"only this time they'll be
catcalls!"

And, with a shout of almost maniac laughter, the jealous artiste flung
himself into a chair, and began to pull off his boots.

Clarence silently withdrew. The hour was very near.

The Grand Duke Vodkakoff was not the man to let the grass grow under
his feet. He was no lobster, no flat-fish. He did it now—swift,
secret, deadly—a typical Muscovite. By midnight his staff had their
orders.

Those orders were for the stalls at the Lobelia.

Price of entrance to the gallery and pit was served out at daybreak to
the 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 English
literature than the quite accidental visit of Mr. Bart Kennedy to the
Lobelia on that historic night. He happened to turn in there casually
after dinner, and was thus enabled to see the whole thing from start to
finish. At a quarter to eleven a wild-eyed man charged in at the main
entrance of Carmelite House, and, too impatient to use the lift, dashed
up the stairs, shouting for pens, ink and paper.

Next morning the
Daily Mail
was one riot of headlines. The whole
of 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's
special report.

He wrote as follows:—

"A night to remember. A marvellous night. A night such as few will see
again. 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! So
inextricably are the prose and romance of life blended. My dinner! I
had eaten my dinner on this night. This wonderful night. This night of
September 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. I
debated within myself. A Hall? A theatre? A book in the library? That
night, the night of September the eleventh, I as near as a toucher
spent in the library of my club with a book. That night! The night of
September the eleventh. Last night!

"Fate took me to the Lobelia. Fate! We are its toys. Its footballs. We
are the footballs of Fate. Fate might have sent me to the Gaiety. Fate
took 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 courteous
manager.

"I was in the Lobelia. A dead-head. I was in the Lobelia as a
dead-head!"

Here, in the original draft of the article, there are reflections, at
some length, on the interior decorations of the Hall, and an excursus
on music-hall performances in general. It is not till he comes to
examine the audience that Mr. Kennedy returns to the main issue.

"And what manner of audience was it that had gathered together to view
the entertainment provided by the genial and courteous manager of the
Lobelia? The audience. Beyond whom there is no appeal. The Caesars of
the music-hall. The audience."

At this point the author has a few extremely interesting and thoughtful
remarks on the subject of audiences. These may be omitted. "In the
stalls I noted a solid body of Russian officers. These soldiers from
the Steppes. These bearded men. These Russians. They sat silent and
watchful. They applauded little. The programme left them cold. The
Trick Cyclist. The Dashing Soubrette and Idol of Belgravia. The
Argumentative College Chums. The Swell Comedian. The Man with the
Performing 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 had
been told by a commissionaire that the pit and gallery were full of
Russians. Russians. Russians everywhere. Why? Were they genuine patrons
of the Halls? Or were they there from some ulterior motive? There was
an air of suspense. We were all waiting. Waiting. For what?

"The atmosphere is summed up in a word. One word. Sinister. The
atmosphere was sinister.

"AA! A stir in the crowded house. The ruffling of the face of the sea
before a storm. The Sisters Sigsbee, Coon Delineators and Unrivalled
Burlesque Artists, have finished their dance, smiled, blown kisses,
skipped off, skipped on again, smiled, blown more kisses, and
disappeared. A long chord from the orchestra. A chord that is almost a
wail. A wail of regret for that which is past. Two liveried menials
appear. They carry sheets of cardboard. These menials carry sheets of
cardboard. 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. They
are 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, General
of 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, 'Ladies
and Gentlemen,' but no more.

"And why does he say no more? Has he finished his turn? Is that all he
does? Are his eight hundred and seventy-five pounds a week paid him for
saying, '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 and
Gentlemen,' but no more? No more. Only that. No more. Nothing more. No
more.

"Because from the stalls a solid, vast, crushing 'Boo!' is hurled at
him. 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 they
have been waiting so tensely. For this. They have been waiting for this
colossal 'Boo!'

"The General retreats a step. He is amazed. Startled. Perhaps
frightened. He waves his hands.