by Frank Norris
“What did you do? What did you do, Buldy?” cried Horse Wilson.
“I don’t know. Here’s the devil to pay. I’m making signals without knowing it. Darn fool claqueurs, they’d yell encore in the entr’acte if they got the tip. I — oh, Lord! there they go again.”
“Shut ’em oop. Shut ’em oop den.”
“Dammit, I’ve folded me arms till I’m black in the face. They must have two codes, an’ we only got the wrong one, somehow, or only got part of it right. I don’t know, I’m all mixed up.”
Suddenly the claque stopped with terrifying abruptness, and the music on the stage made itself heard again. We could see the leader of the orchestra looking distressfully at the claque, and on Escalais’s face there was a sign of gathering wrath. Twice within the next three minutes Buldy started applause at the most inopportune moments. It was precisely as though a party of children were playing with the levers and throttles of a locomotive. The house began to grow uneasy. There were cries of “Assez! Assez!” from the gallery.
Then all at once Juliana appeared. She wore the costume of a page and was supposed to deliver a note from the queen to the captain. The presentation gave her the excuse for her entrance song.
She began to sing, and that, too, surprisingly well. She was not nervous. The audience fell quiet.
“Now den,” whispered Bismarck to Buldy Jones, “tink oaf sometings. Der claque hev der eye on you.”
Now there is a pause in the first page’s song, between the first and second movements, while the orchestra elaborates the motif, and it is just here that the singer should get her first hand. Also at the same point the second page — which was Straus — is supposed to enter at the back. Later on she takes stage and interrupts the first page, has a song of her own, and the number closes with a trio between the two pages and the captain of the watch. After this enter the queen and all the court. It is the finale of the first act.
But as Juliana was singing the last bars of the first part of her song Buldy Jones saw that the claque was not going to applaud. Again and again he stroked his hair, fluttered his handkerchief, pulled his moustache, nodded, winked, coughed — all to no purpose. The claque remained impassive. They were waiting for their signal. They would obey us implicitly. In a second it would be too late. This was Juliana’s principal number. We held the key of the position and we were powerless.
“Lord, I can’t start ‘em!” groaned Buldy Jones.
“Maybe,” I hazarded, “the audience will applaud of itself.”
“Niemals,” groaned Bismarck. “We hev in der tsoup gefallen.”
Just as Juliana was on the last notes there were hurried steps in the corridor outside, the door of the box was flung open, and there stood, not the sous-chef, not Devanbez, but the satrap, the autocrat, the czar himself, Roubauld.
“Oh, the bounder!” exclaimed Horse Wilson.
Buldy Jones turned about, saw Roubauld, rose to his feet, and in the movement the claque saw its signal and burst out into such a tempest of applause that the chandelier shook again.
But Roubauld was a general. He took in the situation at a glance, and before he deigned to notice us stepped to the front of the box and made some barely perceptible gesture. The claque knew its master, and cowered to silence.
We saw our victory turned into defeat, but in the next second, and before Roubauld could speak, Horse Wilson cried:
“Hi, we’ve started the house for fair, and you can’t work that, old man!”
It was true; the claque had started the audience before Roubauld could interfere, and a very creditable applause was under way from gallery, loge, and orchestra.
Then Roubauld did a daring thing. His authority was at stake, the wrong debutante was being encored; his machine was cracking; he was desperate. His signal was so cleverly given that none of us perceived it; but the claque that the minute before had been tumultuous in applause, recognized it and began to hiss and call, “Assez! Assez!” Part of the audience followed suit; but we in our box suddenly burst out into shouts of —
“Bis, his! Encore, tres bien, brava Juliana!”
And just at this, of all moments, Straus made her entrance.
VII
The claque, obedient to Roubauld’s direction, began a vociferous demonstration, but by now the people in our part of the audience, Juliana’s part, seemed, as Horse Wilson put it afterward, to “pipe the whole gyme.” They answered the claque shout for shout, cheering where they hissed, crying “Encore!” to their “Assez!” Part of the house was shouting “Juliana,” part “Straus,” while another part, feeling itself exploited, began to vociferate:
“Á bas la claque! A bas la claque!”
The whole opera was interrupted. Helpless, the leader of the orchestra sat in his place, his baton swinging uselessly at his side. The singers on the stage stared blankly out into the tumult.
Through the open door at the back of our box entered four gendarmes. Roubauld, with the air of a Richelieu, indicated us.
“These are the people,” he said. “Mettez ces gens, á la porte.”
“Gyme’s up,” said Horse Wilson with philosophy. But when one of the officers put his hand on Bismarck’s arm the Prussian suddenly trumpeted like an elephant.
“Gedt oudt, bube. Gedt oudt, spitzbuch. Tek der hend avay off me.” Then, suddenly losing his wits altogether, thundered: “Me, I am den Broosian! I do and be arrest bei no demn Frainchman! A bas la France. Hoch der Kaiser!”
In a twinkling a dozen voices from the gallery yelled:
“A bas l’Allemagne! Vive la France!”
“A la porte, á la porte le Prussien!”
“A la porte, la sale the!”
Our box was in full view of the audience, and everyone could see Bismarck and the gendarmes grappling with each other. Below us, in a box of the first tier, a lady screamed. In the amphitheatre whole parties, scandalized at the uproar, were getting out. A nervous little gentleman in evening dress, who evidently mistook the whole situation and believed a panic impended, appeared on the stage, exclaiming from time to time: “Messieurs, mesdames, un peu de silence. Il n’y a pas de danger; messieurs, je vous prie, il n’y a pas de feu. There is no fire, sit down.”
Fire. It was the fatal word. No doubt three fourths of the audience knew the small gentleman was confused. Not so the remaining fourth. There was no panic, but some three or four hundred people left the building. They did not stand on the order of their going, and the more they were reasoned with the angrier they became.
In a single glance over the auditorium I saw four fist fights going on in different quarters of the building. Fully a hundred men in the gallery were standing on their feet shouting:
“Vive la France! A bas l’ Allemagne!”
Others vociferated:
“A la porte, a la porte!”
The claque — Roman soldiers in the destruction of Pompeii — still kept up an incessant: “Straus! Straus!” while from gallery and pit came answering calls of:
“Encore! Bis, his! Tres bien!”
“Hoch der Kaiser!” bellowed Bismarck.
“No fire. No fire. Sit down, messieurs,” pleaded the little man from the stage.
And in the midst of this clamour, this swirl of confusion, the curtain fell.
We were duly and formally arrested, and passed the night in the prison of Saint Lazare. The next morning Buldy Jones paid our fines, and by noon we were once more our own men. But we were no sooner liberated than Buldy Jones marched us to the nearest kiosk and bought the morning’s Figaro. The article we sought for read as follows:
“At the performance of Van Arteveldt, at the Opera last night, a young debutante, whose stage name appears to be Mile. Juliana, acquitted herself of her role with astonishing credit. Her first song was received with acclamation, and, indeed, it is almost permissible to add that the young lady created a veritable furor.
“A party of intoxicated German students took this occasion to insult the Republic, and were arres
ted by the gendarmes. Unfortunately the audience misunderstood the cause of the disturbance, and believing that a conflagration was at hand, left the building. There was no panic. The German students were arrested. It is not believed that the affair will engender any grave international complications.”
Everybody’s, May, 1907.
THE END
The Short Stories
Norris’ home in San Francisco, prior to his time at Harvard
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
A DEAL IN WHEAT
THE WIFE OF CHINO
A BARGAIN WITH PEG-LEG
THE PASSING OF COCK-EYE BLACKLOCK
A MEMORANDUM OF SUDDEN DEATH
TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE
THE DUAL PERSONALITY OF SLICK DICK NICKERSON
THE SHIP THAT SAW A GHOST
THE GHOST IN THE CROSSTREES
THE RIDING OF FELIPE
THE JOYOUS MIRACLE
THE THIRD CIRCLE
THE HOUSE WITH THE BLINDS
LITTLE DRAMAS OF THE CURBSTONE
SHORTY STACK, PUGILIST
THE STRANGEST THING
A REVERSION TO TYPE
BOOM
THE DIS-ASSOCIATED CHARITIES
SON OF A SHEIK
A DEFENSE OF THE FLAG
TOPPAN
A CAGED LION
THIS ANIMAL OF A BULDY JONES
DYING FIRES
GRETTIR AT DRANGEY
THE GUEST OF HONOUR
THE JONGLEUR OF TAILLEBOIS
A SALVATION BOOM IN MATABELELAND
BANDY CALLAGHAN’S GIRL
HIS SISTER
END OF THE BEGINNING
JUDY’S SERVICE OF GOLD PLATE
FANTAISIE PRINTANIERE
PERVERTED TALES
THE RICKSHA THAT HAPPENED BY R——D K——G
THE GREEN STONE OF UNREST BY S——N CR——E
A HERO OF TOMATO CAN BY B — E H — TE
VAN BUBBLE’S STORY BY R—D H—G D—S
AMBROSIA BEER BY A——E B—E
I CALL ON LADY DOTTY FROM THE POLLY PARABLES BY AN——Y H—PE
THE HEROISM OF JONESEE
IN THE HEAT OF BATTLE
THE PUPPETS AND THE PUPPY
THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY
THE ISABELLA REGINA
A CASE FOR LOMBROSO
HIS SINGLE BLESSEDNESS
HIS DEAD MOTHER’S PORTRAIT
MAN PROPOSES — NO. I
MAN PROPOSES — NO. II
MAN PROPOSES — NO. III
MAN PROPOSES — NO. IV
MAN PROPOSES — NO. V
LAUTH
TRAVIS HALLETT’S HALF BACK
SHE AND THE OTHER FELLOW
THE MOST NOBLE CONQUEST OF MAN
OUTSIDE THE ZENANA
AFTER STRANGE GODS
THOROUGHBRED
A STATUE IN AN OLD GARDEN
A LOST STORY
BULDY JONES, CHEF DE CLAQUE
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
A BARGAIN WITH PEG-LEG
A CAGED LION
A CASE FOR LOMBROSO
A DEAL IN WHEAT
A DEFENSE OF THE FLAG
A HERO OF TOMATO CAN BY B — E H — TE
A LOST STORY
A MEMORANDUM OF SUDDEN DEATH
A REVERSION TO TYPE
A SALVATION BOOM IN MATABELELAND
A STATUE IN AN OLD GARDEN
AFTER STRANGE GODS
AMBROSIA BEER BY A——E B—E
BANDY CALLAGHAN’S GIRL
BOOM
BULDY JONES, CHEF DE CLAQUE
DYING FIRES
END OF THE BEGINNING
FANTAISIE PRINTANIERE
GRETTIR AT DRANGEY
HIS DEAD MOTHER’S PORTRAIT
HIS SINGLE BLESSEDNESS
HIS SISTER
I CALL ON LADY DOTTY FROM THE POLLY PARABLES BY AN——Y H—PE
IN THE HEAT OF BATTLE
JUDY’S SERVICE OF GOLD PLATE
LAUTH
LITTLE DRAMAS OF THE CURBSTONE
MAN PROPOSES — NO. I
MAN PROPOSES — NO. II
MAN PROPOSES — NO. III
MAN PROPOSES — NO. IV
MAN PROPOSES — NO. V
OUTSIDE THE ZENANA
PERVERTED TALES
SHE AND THE OTHER FELLOW
SHORTY STACK, PUGILIST
SON OF A SHEIK
THE DIS-ASSOCIATED CHARITIES
THE DUAL PERSONALITY OF SLICK DICK NICKERSON
THE GHOST IN THE CROSSTREES
THE GREEN STONE OF UNREST BY S——N CR——E
THE GUEST OF HONOUR
THE HEROISM OF JONESEE
THE HOUSE WITH THE BLINDS
THE ISABELLA REGINA
THE JONGLEUR OF TAILLEBOIS
THE JOYOUS MIRACLE
THE MOST NOBLE CONQUEST OF MAN
THE PASSING OF COCK-EYE BLACKLOCK
THE PUPPETS AND THE PUPPY
THE RICKSHA THAT HAPPENED BY R——D K——G
THE RIDING OF FELIPE
THE SHIP THAT SAW A GHOST
THE STRANGEST THING
THE THIRD CIRCLE
THE WIFE OF CHINO
THIS ANIMAL OF A BULDY JONES
THOROUGHBRED
THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY
TOPPAN
TRAVIS HALLETT’S HALF BACK
TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE
VAN BUBBLE’S STORY BY R—D H—G D—S
The Poetry
Frank Norris’ cabin, Gilroy, Santa Clara County, CA
Frank Norris memorial, Redwood Retreat Road, Gilroy, Santa Clara County, CA
YVERNELLE
Frank Norris was not yet 22-years-old when Lippincott of Philadelphia published his first book, Yvernelle: A Legend of Feudal France, in 1891. At the time, Norris was still a student at the University of California at Berkeley. Yvernelle was an illustrated, book-length saga in verse, and Norris never wrote or published anything like it again. Overland Monthly, commenting in its January 1892 issue, was one of the few publications to take notice of the youthful author, but was more intrigued by the book’s beautiful printing than by Norris’ writing:
Yvernelle, by Frank Norris, is a legend of chivalry founded on a passage ‘from Goethe, in which a curse is laid by a deserted woman on the woman whose lips shall next touch those of her reluctant lover. Yvernelle falls under the curse and the story is devoted to the purging of the lover’s sin through mortal combat and mastery of self and his final happy union with Yvernelle. The book is a marvel of the printer’s art. The binding is in white and gold, and the illustrations are exquisite both in design and in reproduction. The illuminated figures by Dielman, Shirlaw, and Will S. Low, are especially fine. The text is interesting, sparkles here and there with an apt and pretty figure, and in the fight in the second canto, and in Sir Caverlaye’s ride, rises to a good deal of dramatic force.
Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine also praised the lavish production in its November 1891 issue:
This narrative poem — a free and flowing fancy of the days of knight-errantry — has been made all splendidly beautiful by the magic touch of the artist’s hand. The three illustrations in color are marvels of reproduction, worthy of fine framing; and the plentiful decorative designs, printed in monotint, show an excellence of drawing and an illustrative value highly meritorious. The volume, indeed, in every detail — in the superior quality of the paper, the faultless printing, the lavish margin, and the rich and tasteful binding — calls for unstinted praise. Its romantic text relates to the ever-glorious days of chivalry, — tells a moving tale in fluent and melodious verse of the loves and battles of a valiant knight who loses his heart in two lands...
The Critic, on December 5, 1891, compared Norris’ tale favorably to those of Sir Walter Scott:
‘Yvernelle’ is a legend of feudal France, told in octosyllabic couplet verse by Mr. Frank Norris...The author knows how to tell a st
ory and also how to write in the manner of Sir Walter. His lines have plenty of swing and music, and the narrative advances steadily without any break in the movement of the verse. The mediaeval character of the legend is well sustained, and there is plot and incident enough to make the story interesting...
In later years, Norris preferred to dismiss this early effort at an already old-fashioned, even outmoded “literary” style, as he moved in a very different direction with his writing.
First edition Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1892
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION.
CANTO I. HOW SIR CAVERLAYE OF VOYSVENEL DEPARTED FROM SPAIN AND CAME INTO FRANCE.
CANTO II. HOW SIR CAVERLAYE AND THE WYVERN KNIGHT MET IN DEADLY COMBAT.
CANTO III. HOW SIR CAVERLAYE CAME TO BRITTOMARTE, TO KAERENRAIS, AND WHAT BEFELL HIM ON THE WAY.
THE plot of the following poem was suggested by this passage from the autobiography of Goethe: “Nun,” rief sie aus, “fürchte meine Verwünschung. Unglück über Unglück fur immer und immer auf Diejenige, die zum ersten Male nach mir diese Lippen küsst! Wage es nun wieder, mit ihm anzubinden; ich weiss, der Himmel erhôrt mich dies Mal Und Sie, mein Herr, eilen Sie nun, eilen Sie was Sie kônnen!” — Dichtung und Wahrheit, IX. It is scarcely necessary to add that the characters and events of the poem are purely fictitious.
INTRODUCTION.
“THE evil that men do lives after them,
And with their bones is oft interred the good.”
Well said, Antonius; and men condemn
Their ancestors with base ingratitude.
But that which for one man alone is true
Is often truer of a buried age;
Its virtues are perversely kept from view,
While all its vices swell the historic page.
Perchance the cause for such injustice lies
In that we readier do understand
The miseries which from such vices rise
Than those joys springing from a virtuous land.