by Saki
COUSIN TERESA
Basset Harrowcluff returned to the home of his fathers, after an absenceof four years, distinctly well pleased with himself. He was onlythirty-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 worththe ransom of many kings in out-of-the-way regions, and done the wholebusiness on rather less expenditure than would be requisite fororganising a charity in the home country. In Whitehall and places wherethey think, they doubtless thought well of him. It was notinconceivable, his father allowed himself to imagine, that Basset’s namemight 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 elaboratefutilities that had claimed his whole time and energies, such as theywere, four years ago, and almost as far back before that as he couldremember. It was the contempt of the man of action for the man ofactivities, and it was probably reciprocated. Lucas was an over-wellnourished individual, some nine years Basset’s senior, with a colouringthat would have been accepted as a sign of intensive culture in anasparagus, but probably meant in this case mere abstention from exercise.His hair and forehead furnished a recessional note in a personality thatwas in all other respects obtrusive and assertive. There was certainlyno Semitic blood in Lucas’s parentage, but his appearance contrived toconvey at least a suggestion of Jewish extraction. Clovis Sangrail, whoknew most of his associates by sight, said it was undoubtedly a case ofprotective mimicry.
Two days after Basset’s return, Lucas frisked in to lunch in a state oftwittering excitement that could not be restrained even for the immediateconsideration of soup, but had to be verbally discharged in splutteringcompetition with mouthfuls of vermicelli.
“I’ve got hold of an idea for something immense,” he babbled, “somethingthat 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 thehabit of discovering futilities that were “simply It” at frequentlyrecurring intervals. The discovery generally meant that he flew up totown, preceded by glowingly-worded telegrams, to see some one connectedwith the stage or the publishing world, got together one or two momentousluncheon parties, flitted in and out of “Gambrinus” for one or twoevenings, and returned home with an air of subdued importance and theasparagus tint slightly intensified. The great idea was generallyforgotten a few weeks later in the excitement of some new discovery.
“The inspiration came to me whilst I was dressing,” announced Lucas; “itwill be _the_ thing in the next music-hall _revue_. All London will gomad 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 thetwo syllables of bor-zoi. It’s immense. And I’ve thought out all thebusiness of it; the singer will sing the first verse alone, then duringthe second verse Cousin Teresa will walk through, followed by four woodendogs on wheels; Cæsar will be an Irish terrier, Fido a black poodle, Jocka fox-terrier, and the borzoi, of course, will be a borzoi. During thethird verse Cousin Teresa will come on alone, and the dogs will be drawnacross by themselves from the opposite wing; then Cousin Teresa willcatch 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 veryeffective. There’ll be a lot of applause there, and for the fourth verseCousin 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 beled 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 leadsthe whole lot of them off on a string, and all the time every one singinglike 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, Ishan’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 ofCousin Teresa, they were signally successful in concealing the fact.
“Poor Lucas does take his silly little ideas seriously,” said ColonelHarrowcluff afterwards in the smoking-room.
“Yes,” said his younger son, in a slightly less tolerant tone, “in a dayor two he’ll come back and tell us that his sensational masterpiece isabove the heads of the public, and in about three weeks’ time he’ll bewild with enthusiasm over a scheme to dramatise the poems of Herrick orsomething equally promising.”
And then an extraordinary thing befell. In defiance of all precedentLucas’s glowing anticipations were justified and endorsed by the courseof events. If Cousin Teresa was above the heads of the public, thepublic heroically adapted itself to her altitude. Introduced as anexperiment at a dull moment in a new _revue_, the success of the item wasunmistakable; the calls were so insistent and uproarious that even Lucas’ample devisings of additional “business” scarcely sufficed to keep pacewith the demand. Packed houses on successive evenings confirmed theverdict of the first night audience, stalls and boxes filledsignificantly just before the turn came on, and emptied significantlyafter the last _encore_ had been given. The manager tearfullyacknowledged that Cousin Teresa was It. Stage hands and supers andprogramme sellers acknowledged it to one another without the leastreservation. The name of the _revue_ dwindled to secondary importance,and vast letters of electric blue blazoned the words “Cousin Teresa” fromthe front of the great palace of pleasure. And, of course, the magic ofthe famous refrain laid its spell all over the Metropolis. Restaurantproprietors were obliged to provide the members of their orchestras withpainted wooden dogs on wheels, in order that the much-demanded and alwaysconceded melody should be rendered with the necessary spectaculareffects, and the crash of bottles and forks on the tables at the mentionof the big borzoi usually drowned the sincerest efforts of drum orcymbals. Nowhere and at no time could one get away from the double thumpthat brought up the rear of the refrain; revellers reeling home at nightbanged it on doors and hoardings, milkmen clashed their cans to itscadence, messenger boys hit smaller messenger boys resounding doublesmacks on the same principle. And the more thoughtful circles of thegreat city were not deaf to the claims and significance of the popularmelody. An enterprising and emancipated preacher discoursed from hispulpit on the inner meaning of “Cousin Teresa,” and Lucas Harrowcluff wasinvited to lecture on the subject of his great achievement to members ofthe Young Mens’ Endeavour League, the Nine Arts Club, and other learnedand willing-to-learn bodies. In Society it seemed to be the one thingpeople really cared to talk about; men and women of middle age andaverage education might be seen together in corners earnestly discussing,not the question whether Servia should have an outlet on the Adriatic, orthe possibilities of a British success in international polo contests,but the more absorbing topic of the problematic Aztec or Nilotic originof the Teresa _motiv_.
“Politics and patriotism are so boring and so out of date,” said arevered lady who had some pretensions to oracular utterance; “we are toocosmopolitan nowadays to be really moved by them. That is why onewelcomes an intelligible production like ‘Cousin Teresa,’ that has agenuine 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 beento 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 aknighthood or something of the sort,” said the Minister reflectively.
“Which Harrowcluff?” asked his secretary.
“Which? T
here is only one, isn’t there?” said the Minister; “the ‘CousinTeresa’ man, of course. I think every one would be pleased if weknighted him. Yes, you can put him down on the list of certainties—underthe letter L.”
“The letter L,” said the secretary, who was new to his job; “does thatstand for Liberalism or liberality?”
Most of the recipients of Ministerial favour were expected to qualify inboth of those subjects.
“Literature,” explained the Minister.
And thus, after a fashion, Colonel Harrowcluff’s expectation of seeinghis son’s name in the list of Honours was gratified.