Basset Harrowcluff returned to the home of his fathers, after an absence
of four years, distinctly well pleased with himself. He was only
thirty-one, but he had put in some useful service in an out-of-the-way,
though not unimportant, corner of the world. He had quieted a province,
kept open a trade route, enforced the tradition of respect which is worth
the ransom of many kings in out-of-the-way regions, and done the whole
business on rather less expenditure than would be requisite for
organising a charity in the home country. In Whitehall and places where
they think, they doubtless thought well of him. It was not
inconceivable, his father allowed himself to imagine, that Basset’s name
might figure in the next list of Honours.
Basset was inclined to be rather contemptuous of his half-brother, Lucas,
whom he found feverishly engrossed in the same medley of elaborate
futilities that had claimed his whole time and energies, such as they
were, four years ago, and almost as far back before that as he could
remember. It was the contempt of the man of action for the man of
activities, and it was probably reciprocated. Lucas was an over-well
nourished individual, some nine years Basset’s senior, with a colouring
that would have been accepted as a sign of intensive culture in an
asparagus, but probably meant in this case mere abstention from exercise.
His hair and forehead furnished a recessional note in a personality that
was in all other respects obtrusive and assertive. There was certainly
no Semitic blood in Lucas’s parentage, but his appearance contrived to
convey at least a suggestion of Jewish extraction. Clovis Sangrail, who
knew most of his associates by sight, said it was undoubtedly a case of
protective mimicry.
Two days after Basset’s return, Lucas frisked in to lunch in a state of
twittering excitement that could not be restrained even for the immediate
consideration of soup, but had to be verbally discharged in spluttering
competition with mouthfuls of vermicelli.
“I’ve got hold of an idea for something immense,” he babbled, “something
that is simply It.”
Basset gave a short laugh that would have done equally well as a snort,
if one had wanted to make the exchange. His half-brother was in the
habit of discovering futilities that were “simply It” at frequently
recurring intervals. The discovery generally meant that he flew up to
town, preceded by glowingly-worded telegrams, to see some one connected
with the stage or the publishing world, got together one or two momentous
luncheon parties, flitted in and out of “Gambrinus” for one or two
evenings, and returned home with an air of subdued importance and the
asparagus tint slightly intensified. The great idea was generally
forgotten a few weeks later in the excitement of some new discovery.
“The inspiration came to me whilst I was dressing,” announced Lucas; “it
will be _the_ thing in the next music-hall _revue_. All London will go
mad over it. It’s just a couplet; of course there will be other words,
but they won’t matter. Listen:
Cousin Teresa takes out Cæsar,
Fido, Jock, and the big borzoi.
A lifting, catchy sort of refrain, you see, and big-drum business on the
two syllables of bor-zoi. It’s immense. And I’ve thought out all the
business of it; the singer will sing the first verse alone, then during
the second verse Cousin Teresa will walk through, followed by four wooden
dogs on wheels; Cæsar will be an Irish terrier, Fido a black poodle, Jock
a fox-terrier, and the borzoi, of course, will be a borzoi. During the
third verse Cousin Teresa will come on alone, and the dogs will be drawn
across by themselves from the opposite wing; then Cousin Teresa will
catch on to the singer and go off-stage in one direction, while the dogs’
procession goes off in the other, crossing en route, which is always very
effective. There’ll be a lot of applause there, and for the fourth verse
Cousin Teresa will come on in sables and the dogs will all have coats on.
Then I’ve got a great idea for the fifth verse; each of the dogs will be
led on by a Nut, and Cousin Teresa will come on from the opposite side,
crossing en route, always effective, and then she turns round and leads
the whole lot of them off on a string, and all the time every one singing
like mad:
Cousin Teresa takes out Cæsar
Fido, Jock, and the big borzoi.
Tum-Tum! Drum business on the two last syllables. I’m so excited, I
shan’t sleep a wink to-night. I’m off to-morrow by the ten-fifteen.
I’ve wired to Hermanova to lunch with me.”
If any of the rest of the family felt any excitement over the creation of
Cousin Teresa, they were signally successful in concealing the fact.
“Poor Lucas does take his silly little ideas seriously,” said Colonel
Harrowcluff afterwards in the smoking-room.
“Yes,” said his younger son, in a slightly less tolerant tone, “in a day
or two he’ll come back and tell us that his sensational masterpiece is
above the heads of the public, and in about three weeks’ time he’ll be
wild with enthusiasm over a scheme to dramatise the poems of Herrick or
something equally promising.”
And then an extraordinary thing befell. In defiance of all precedent
Lucas’s glowing anticipations were justified and endorsed by the course
of events. If Cousin Teresa was above the heads of the public, the
public heroically adapted itself to her altitude. Introduced as an
experiment at a dull moment in a new _revue_, the success of the item was
unmistakable; the calls were so insistent and uproarious that even Lucas’
ample devisings of additional “business” scarcely sufficed to keep pace
with the demand. Packed houses on successive evenings confirmed the
verdict of the first night audience, stalls and boxes filled
significantly just before the turn came on, and emptied significantly
after the last _encore_ had been given. The manager tearfully
acknowledged that Cousin Teresa was It. Stage hands and supers and
programme sellers acknowledged it to one another without the least
reservation. The name of the _revue_ dwindled to secondary importance,
and vast letters of electric blue blazoned the words “Cousin Teresa” from
the front of the great palace of pleasure. And, of course, the magic of
the famous refrain laid its spell all over the Metropolis. Restaurant
proprietors were obliged to provide the members of their orchestras with
painted wooden dogs on wheels, in order that the much-demanded and always
conceded melody should be rendered with the necessary spectacular
effects, and the crash of bottles and forks on the tables at the mention
of the big borzoi usually drowned the sincerest efforts of drum or
cymbals. Nowhere and at no time could one get away from the double thump
that brought up the rear of the refrain; revellers reeling home at night
banged it on doors and hoardings, milkmen clashed their cans to its
cadence, messenger boys hit smaller messenger boys resounding double
smacks on the same principle. And the more thoughtful circles of the
great city were not deaf to the claims and significance of the popular
melody. An enterprising and emancipated preacher discoursed from his
pulpit on the inner meaning of “Cousin Teresa,” and Lucas Harrowcluff was
invited to lecture on the subject of his great achievement to members of
the Young Mens’ Endeavour League, the Nine Arts Club, and other learned
and willing-to-learn bodies. In Society it seemed to be the one thing
people really cared to talk about; men and women of middle age and
average education might be seen together in corners earnestly discussing,
not the question whether Servia should have an outlet on the Adriatic, or
the possibilities of a British success in international polo contests,
but the more absorbing topic of the problematic Aztec or Nilotic origin
of the Teresa _motiv_.
“Politics and patriotism are so boring and so out of date,” said a
revered lady who had some pretensions to oracular utterance; “we are too
cosmopolitan nowadays to be really moved by them. That is why one
welcomes an intelligible production like ‘Cousin Teresa,’ that has a
genuine message for one. One can’t understand the message all at once,
of course, but one felt from the very first that it was there. I’ve been
to see it eighteen times and I’m going again to-morrow and on Thursday.
One can’t see it often enough.”
* * * * *
“It would be rather a popular move if we gave this Harrowcluff person a
knighthood or something of the sort,” said the Minister reflectively.
“Which Harrowcluff?” asked his secretary.
“Which? There is only one, isn’t there?” said the Minister; “the ‘Cousin
Teresa’ man, of course. I think every one would be pleased if we
knighted him. Yes, you can put him down on the list of certainties—under
the letter L.”
“The letter L,” said the secretary, who was new to his job; “does that
stand for Liberalism or liberality?”
Most of the recipients of Ministerial favour were expected to qualify in
both of those subjects.
“Literature,” explained the Minister.
And thus, after a fashion, Colonel Harrowcluff’s expectation of seeing
his son’s name in the list of Honours was gratified.