"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...."
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 to-morrow, 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.
"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 Duke
suavely.
The Prince gritted his teeth. He was no match for his slippery
adversary in a diplomatic dialogue, and he knew it.
"The sun rises in the East," he cried, half-choking, "but it sets—it
sets!"
"So does a hen," was the cynical reply.
The last remnants of the Prince's self-control were slipping away. This
elusive, diplomatic conversation is a terrible strain if one is not in
the mood for it. Its proper setting is the gay, glittering ball-room at
some frivolous court. To a man who has just got the bird at a
music-hall, and who is trying to induce another man to confess that the
thing was his doing, it is little short of maddening.
"Hen!" he echoed, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Have you
studied the habits of hens?"
The truth seemed very near to him now, but the master-diplomat before
him was used to extracting himself from awkward corners.
"Pullets with a southern exposure," he drawled, "have yellow legs and
ripen 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. The
Prince brought his fist down with a crash on the counter.
"Yes," he shouted, "you are right. We do talk silly; but we shall do so
no longer. I am tired of this verbal fencing. A plain answer to a plain
question. Did you or did you not send your troops to give me the bird
to-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, "never
takes 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 one
chance. I'll give you and your precious soldiers twenty-four hours from
midnight to-night to leave this country. If you are still here
then—"
He paused dramatically.
The Grand Duke slowly drained his vermouth.
"Have you seen my professional advertisement in the
Era
, my dear
Prince?" 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 to
wish you a very good night."
"The same to you," said the Grand Duke. "Mind the step."
The news that an open rupture had occurred between the Generals of the
two invading armies was not slow in circulating. The early editions of
the evening papers were full of it. A symposium of the opinions of Dr.
Emil Reich, Dr. Saleeby, Sandow, Mr. Chiozza Money, and Lady Grove was
hastily collected. Young men with knobbly and bulging foreheads were
turned on by their editors to write character-sketches of the two
generals. All was stir and activity.
Meanwhile, those who look after London's public amusements were busy
with telephone and telegraph. The quarrel had taken place on Friday
night. It was probable that, unless steps were taken, the battle would
begin early on Saturday. Which, it did not require a man of unusual
intelligence to see, would mean a heavy financial loss to those who
supplied London with its Saturday afternoon amusements. The matinees
would suffer. The battle might not affect the stalls and dress-circle,
perhaps, but there could be no possible doubt that the pit and gallery
receipts would fall off terribly. To the public which supports the pit
and gallery of a theatre there is an irresistible attraction about a
fight on anything like a large scale. When one considers that a quite
ordinary street-fight will attract hundreds of spectators, it will be
plainly seen that no theatrical entertainment could hope to compete
against so strong a counter-attraction as a battle between the German
and Russian armies.
The various football-grounds would be heavily hit, too. And there was
to be a monster roller-skating carnival at Olympia. That also would be
spoiled.
A deputation of amusement-caterers hurried to the two camps within an
hour of the appearance of the first evening paper. They put their case
plainly and well. The Generals were obviously impressed. Messages
passed and repassed between the two armies, and in the end it was
decided to put off the outbreak of hostilities till Monday morning.
Satisfactory as this undoubtedly was for the theatre-managers and
directors of football clubs, it was in some ways a pity. From the
standpoint of the historian it spoiled the whole affair. But for the
postponement, readers of this history might—nay, would—have been able
to absorb a vivid and masterly account of the great struggle, with a
careful description of the tactics by which victory was achieved. They
would have been told the disposition of the various regiments, the
stratagems, the dashing advances, the skilful retreats, and the Lessons
of the War.
As it is, owing to the mistaken good-nature of the rival generals, the
date of the fixture was changed, and practically all that a historian
can do is to record the result.
A slight mist had risen as early as four o'clock on Saturday. By
night-fall the atmosphere was a little dense, but the lamp-posts were
still clearly visible at a distance of some feet, and nobody,
accustomed to living in London, would have noticed anything much out of
the common. It was not till Sunday morning that the fog proper really
began.
London awoke on Sunday to find the world blanketed in the densest,
yellowest London particular that had been experienced for years. It was
the sort of day when the City clerk has the exhilarating certainty that
at last he has an excuse for lateness which cannot possibly be received
with harsh disbelief. People spent the day indoors and hoped it would
clear up by tomorrow.
"They can't possibly fight if it's like this," they told each other.
But on the Monday morning the fog was, if possible, denser. It wrapped
London about as with a garment. People shook their heads.
"They'll have to put it off," they were saying, when of a
sudden—
Boom!
And, again,
Boom!
It was the sound of heavy guns.
The battle had begun!
One does not wish to grumble or make a fuss, but still it does seem a
little hard that a battle of such importance, a battle so outstanding
in the history of the world, should have been fought under such
conditions. London at that moment was richer than ever before in
descriptive reporters. It was the age of descriptive reporters, of
vivid pen-pictures. In every newspaper office there were men who could
have hauled up their slacks about that battle in a way that would have
made a Y.M.C.A. lecturer want to get at somebody with a bayonet; men
who could have handed out the adjectives and exclamation-marks till you
almost heard the roar of the guns. And there they were—idle,
supine—like careened battleships. They were helpless. Bart Kennedy did
start an article which began, "Fog. Black fog. And the roar of guns.
Two nations fighting in the fog," but it never came to anything. It was
promising for a while, but it died of inanition in the middle of the
second stick.
It was hard.
The lot of the actual war-correspondents was still worse. It was
useless for them to explain that the fog was too thick to give them a
chance. "If it's light enough for them to fight," said their editors
remorselessly, "it's light enough for you to watch them." And out they
had to go.
They had a perfectly miserable time. Edgar Wallace seems to have lost
his way almost at once. He was found two days later in an almost
starving condition at Steeple Bumpstead. How he got there nobody knows.
He said he had set out to walk to where the noise of the guns seemed to
be, and had gone on walking. Bennett Burleigh, that crafty old
campaigner, had the sagacity to go by Tube. This brought him to
Hampstead, the scene, it turned out later, of the fiercest operations,
and with any luck he might have had a story to tell. But the lift stuck
half-way up, owing to a German shell bursting in its neighbourhood, and
it was not till the following evening that a search-party heard and
rescued him.