“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.
“From gallery and pit comes a hideous whistling and howling. The noise of wild beasts. The noise of exploding boilers. The noise of a music-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 stern critics, shout, ‘Rotten turnovitch!’
“Fire shoots from the eyes of the German. This strong man’s eyes.
“‘Get offski! Swankietoff! Rotten turnovitch!’
“The fury of this audience is terrible. This audience. This last court of appeal. This audience in its fury is terrible.
“What will happen? The German stands his ground. This man of blood and iron stands his ground. He means to go on. This strong man. He means to go on if it snows.
“The audience is pulling up the benches. A tomato shatters itself on the Prince’s right eye. An over-ripe tomato.
“‘Get offski!’ Three eggs and a cat sail through the air. Falling short, they drop on to the orchestra. These eggs! This cat! They fall on the conductor and the second trombone. They fall like the gentle dew from Heaven upon the place beneath. That cat! Those eggs!
“AA! At last the stage-manager—keen, alert, resourceful—saves the situation. 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, the Prince. The Prince. That general. That man of iron. That performer who has 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 the number fifteen. They insert the number sixteen. They are like Destiny— 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 group some feet away stood six muscular, short-sleeved stage-hands. It was they who had flung themselves on the general at the fall of the iron curtain and prevented him dashing round to attack the stalls with his sabre. 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 what happens to everyone some time. Ask any of the top-notch pros. Ask ‘em whether they never got the bird when they were starting. Why, even now some of the biggest stars can’t go to some towns because they always cop 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 for your ‘Ighness.”
The Prince snatched it from his hand.
The note was written in a round, boyish hand. It was signed, “A Friend.” It ran:—”The men who booed you to-night were sent for that purpose by General Vodkakoff, who is jealous of you because of the paragraphs in the Encore this week.”
Prince Otto became suddenly calm.
“Excuse me, your Highness,” said the stage-manager anxiously, as he moved, “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 to look in at the Scotch Stores for a moment.”
“Oh, in that case, your Highness, good-night, your Highness! Better luck tomorrow, your Highness!”
It had been the custom of the two generals, since they had joined the music-hall profession, to go, after their turn, to the Scotch Stores, where they stood talking and blocking the gangway, as etiquette demands that a successful artiste shall.
The Prince had little doubt but that he would find Vodkakoff there to-night.
He was right. The Russian general was there, chatting affably across the 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 diplomatic up-bringing, and knew how to keep a hold on himself. When he spoke it was in the familiar language of diplomacy.
“The rain has stopped,” he said, “but the pavements are still wet underfoot. Has your grace taken the precaution to come out in a good stout pair of boots?”
The shaft plainly went home, but the Grand Duke’s manner, as he replied, was unruffled.
“Rain,” he said, sipping his vermouth, “is always wet; but sometimes it is cold as well.”
“But it never falls upwards,” said the Prince, pointedly.
“Rarely, I understand. Your powers of observation are keen, my dear Prince.”
There was a silence; then the Prince, momentarily baffled, returned to the attack.