The Tragedians by Arthur Conan Doyle
The Tragedians I
The Tragedians II
The Tragedians III
The Tragedians IV
The Tragedians IV
When I came down to breakfast in the morning I found the two brothers waiting for me. Henry looked bright and almost exultant as he greeted me, but Jack was unusually serious.
“It’s all right, old fellow,” said the young actor.
“Yes; look here, Barker,” explained Jack, evidently in considerable perturbation. “It’s a most extraordinary business. The queerest challenge I ever heard of, though I confess that my experience of these things is very limited. I suppose we cannot get out of it?”
“Not for the world!” cried his brother.
“See here,” said Jack; “this is the note I got. Read it for yourself.”
It was addressed to the student, and ran thus:—
“Sir,—
“On the understanding that you act as second to Mr. Henry Latour, allow me to state that in the exercise of his right M. Lablas selects rapiers as his weapon. He begs you to accompany your principal to the theatre to-night, where you will be admitted to the stage as a supernumerary. You can thus satisfy yourself that the final scene is fought according to the strict rules of the duello. The rapiers will be substituted for stage foils without difficulty. I shall be present on behalf of M. Lablas. I have the honour to remain very sincerely yours,
“PIERRE GROSSIERE.”
“What do you think of that?” said Jack.
“Why, I think that it is a preposterous idea, and that you should refuse.”
“It wouldn’t do,” said Henry. “They would try and construe it into cowardice. Besides, what does it matter where I meet the fellow so long as I do meet him? I tell you, Barker,” he continued, laying his hand upon my arm, “that when I do, I intend to kill him!”
There was something resolute in the ring of my friend’s voice. I felt that, in spite of his advantages, Lablas would meet with a dangerous opponent.
“If you should fall, Henry,” said Jack, “I will take your place, and either lick the blackguard or never leave the stage. It would make a sensation to have Hamlet run through by a super-numerary, wouldn’t it?”
And he gave the ghost of a smile.
“Well, write an acceptance at once, Jack,” said Henry. “My only fear is that my sister’s name should get mixed up in the matter.”
“No fear of that,” said I. “It would not be their interest to talk about the ridiculous fiasco they have made.”
“You will come to the National to-night, Barker?” asked Henry. “You can get a place in the front row of the stalls.”
“I will,” said I; “and if you should both fail to avenge your sister, Lablas will have to reckon with me before the curtain falls.”
“You are a good fellow, Barker,” said Henry. “Well,” he added, after a pause, “my private quarrel mustn’t interfere with my duty to the public, so I’ll go back and read my part over. Good-bye, old man! We shall see you to-night.”
And the brothers left me alone to my coffee.
How they got through the day I do not know. I should think even imperturbable Jack found the hours hung rather heavily upon his hands.
As for myself, I was in a fever of suspense. I could only pace up and down the crowded streets, and wait for the evening to come.
The doors did not open until seven o’clock, but the half-hour found me waiting at the entrance to the National.
A knot of enthusiasts, eager to secure places, were already clustering round it. I spent the time in perusing a poster, which was suspended to one of the pillars.
“Lablas” was written across it in great capitals, while in smaller print below there were a few other names, that of Henry Latour being one of them.
It seemed as if the door would never open. There is an end to all things, however, and the hour struck at last. We filed into the theatre one after another, in the orderly French fashion.
I was fortunate enough to secure what I wanted—namely, a centre seat in the front row.
Nothing but the orchestra intervened between me and the footlights. I would have given anything to have seen Jack now—to have had anyone with whom I could exchange a word on the topic which was nearest my heart; but my immediate neighbours were a stolid English manager, who had come over in the hope of picking up something worth imparting, and an enthusiastic young lady with her elderly mamma.
I had learned, even in our short acquaintance, to regard Henry as a dear friend; but I think it was the idea of his sister which gave me such a sinking at the heart, when I thought of the deadly science and diabolical vindictiveness of Lablas.
During the overture I was far too preoccupied to pay much attention to my neighbour the manager, who was pouring into my ears his views of the French stage.
“We can’t approach them on ‘touch-and-go’ comedy,” he said; “it’s their strong point; but when it comes to Shakespeare, they are lost, sir—utterly lost. If you had seen the Hamlets I have seen—Macready, sir, and the older Kean—”
But here his reminiscences were providentially cut short by the rise of the curtain.
The first few scenes were tame enough. The translation lacked the rugged strength and force of our own glorious language. Old theatre goers became restless in their seats, and whispered that there was something amiss with their favourite actor.
His eye seemed to rest upon me with a dark and threatening scowl. The black, tight-fitting dress showed off his splendid figure to advantage, and was admirably adapted, as I could not help thinking, for the second and more tragic part which he was about to play.
My spirits revived when Henry entered. He looked cool and at his ease, though I could see a dangerous light in his eye when he glanced towards his brother actor.
The spirit and fire of his elocution semed to captivate his hearers. From pit to gallery there was not one who did not sympathise with the gallant young Danish nobleman, and he was applauded to the echo.
Hamlet was forgotten in Laertes. I shall never forget the torrent of indignation which rang out in the words—
“A sister driven into desperate terms.
Whose worth, if praises may go back again,
Stood challenger on mount of all the age
For her perfections. But my revenge will come.”
“By Jove, sir!” said the manager, sotto voce; “those last words were nature itself.”
Henry was called before the curtain at the end of the fourth act; but it was in the scene at Ophelia’s grave that he surpassed himself. His howl of “The devil take thy soul!” as he sprang at Hamlet’s throat, fairly brought down the house, and caused me involuntarily to spring to my feet; but he seemed to recollect himself in time, and shook himself clear of his rival.
Hamlet’s invective, too was the strongest point in his character. The vast audience seemed to hang on every word which passed between them.
“You’ll get an English actor to make more stage points,” said the manager; “but there’s a confounded naturalness about all this which is wonderful!”
His dramatic instinct had told him that, in spite of his forty years’ experience, there was something here which he had never met before.
And now there was a great hush in the house as the curtain rose upon the final scene. It was magnificently put upon the stage. The rude, barbaric pomp of the Danish Court was pictured to the life. The king and queen were seated in the background, under a canopy of purple velvet, lined with ermine. The walls of the royal banquet-hall were gorgeous with strange trophies, supposed to have been brought from afar by Viking hands.
There was a clear space in the centre, and at either side a swarm of men-at-arms, courtiers, and all the hangers-on of the royal household.
Laertes was leaning carelessly against a pillar, while Hamlet stood with a smile of confidence upon his face, conversing with a courtier.
Beside Laertes I could see Jack Latour, got up in a suit of armour which was ridiculously out of proportion to his brawny limbs. There was a look upon his face, however, that would have forbidden a laugh at his expense.
To me the excitement was agonising, and all over the house a strange interest began to manifest itself in the proceedings.
Not a sound could be heard over the great theatre as Osric came tripping forward with the bundle of foils.
I surmised that the rapiers were lying among them, for Hamlet took some little time to satisfy himself, though Laertes seemed to choose his weapon without a moment’s hesitation.
“Gad!” said the manager; “look at the man’s eyes! I tell you it’s unique!”
The salute was given, and the courtier with whom Lablas had been speaking drew up to his principal, while Jack took up his position behind his brother.
His honest face was pale with anxiety, and I could see that instead of the double-edged Danish sword, he had a delicate rapier slung to his side. I knew what was meant by that.
I turned away my eyes as the two men approached each other; but I glanced round again involuntarily as I heard a quick stamp, and the sharp ring of steel.
The silence was so profound that you might have heard the breathing of the combatants at the extreme end of the pit.
I caught a glimpse of the dark, savage face of Lablas, and the tall, lithe figure of his antagonist, and I turned my eyes away again from sheer nervousness.
Then there came a ‘momentary cessation in the clash of the swords, and I heard the manager say, “The deception is admirable. You’d swear there was blood running down the leg of Laertes. Capital! capital! The business is perfect!”
I shuddered, and looked up again as they sprang at each other for the second time, and my eyes were riveted upon the stage for the remainder of the conflict.
The combatants were very evenly matched; first one, and then the other, seemed to gain a temporary advantage. The profound science of Lablas was neutralised by the fire and fury of his antagonist’s attack.
I could see from Henry’s face that he had determined to bring matters to a crisis. To kill or be killed had become his one idea.
He rushed at his opponent so furiously that he drove him back among the crowd of courtiers. I saw Lablas give a deadly lunge under the guard, which Henry took through his left arm; and then I saw my friend spring in, and there was a groan and a spurt of blood as Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, tottered forwards to the footlights and fell heavily upon his face.
The effect upon the audience was electrical. There was a hush for a moment, and then, from pit to boxes, and from boxes to gallery, there went up a cheer so spontaneous and so universal, that it was like the mighty voice of one man. The whole house sprang to its feet with round after round of applause.
It was the finest illusion of the year—it was the best coup de theatre, and most realistic stage duel that had ever been fought. But the English manager shuddered as he caught me convulsively by the wrist, and said, in an awe-struck whisper, “I saw it come out at his back!”
Yes, it was the finest illusion of the year; and still the audience applauded and applauded.
Surely he will rise and bow his acknowledgments? One more cheer may do it. But no; he lies there stiff and stark, with a scowl upon his white face, and his life-blood trickling down the boards.
And now there is a hot, heavy smell in the orchestra, which was surely never caused by a stage illusion. Why is that young man gesticulating so? A little crimson pool has trickled upon his music book, and he sees that it is still dripping down, liquid and warm.
And a hush comes over the pit, while the boxes are still applauding; and then the boxes grow quiet, and strange whispers go about. Then the audience above become silent, too, and a great stillness falls upon the theatre, and the heavy brown curtain is rolled down.
“Well, my boy,” said Jack, when I met him, “it was all very terrible, but it ended right.”
“Won’t there be an inquiry into the matter?”
“No, not a bit. The initiated know that it was all fair play, and the rest are under the impression that a button slipped, or a foil snapped. Henry’s name as an actor is made for ever—that’s some consolation.”
“How is he?” I asked.
“Oh, well enough to see company. You must come along and dine with us. He has a slight wound in the leg, and is run through the biceps; but there is no damage done. Rose and the mother are terribly cut up, but, of course, they think it was all an accident. They shall never know the truth.”
And now, before I conclude, let me sketch another scene. It is that solemn and orthodox ritual with which fiction usually, and fact occasionally, as in the present instance, terminates. A man and a woman are kneeling at the foot of an altar, while a clergyman is pronouncing the words that refute the commonly-received doctrine that one and one are two. You will have no difficulty in recognising the pretty little girlish bride; she is altered but little since we saw her six months ago. The bride-groom is—No, most astute and sagacious reader, it is not myself; it is a young French officer of cavalry, with a boyish smile, and the scar of a bullet upon his left breast.
The Tragedians by Arthur Conan Doyle
The Tragedians I
The Tragedians II
The Tragedians III
The Tragedians IV
