Masters of the Theatre

by Delphi Classics

  We may therefore contemplate the tramps of the Sierra without prejudice, admitting cheerfully that our objects — briefly, to be gentlemen of fortune — are much the same as theirs, and the difference in our position and methods merely accidental. One or two of them, perhaps, it would be wiser to kill without malice in a friendly and frank manner; for there are bipeds, just as there are quadrupeds, who are too dangerous to be left unchained and unmuzzled; and these cannot fairly expect to have other men’s lives wasted in the work of watching them. But as society has not the courage to kill them, and, when it catches them, simply wreaks on them some superstitious expiatory rites of torture and degradation, and than lets them loose with heightened qualifications for mischief; it is just as well that they are at large in the Sierra, and in the hands of a chief who looks as if he might possibly, on provocation, order them to be shot.

  This chief, seated in the centre of the group on a squared block of stone from the quarry, is a tall strong man, with a striking cockatoo nose, glossy black hair, pointed beard, upturned moustache, and a Mephistophelean affectation which is fairly imposing, perhaps because the scenery admits of a larger swagger than Piccadilly, perhaps because of a certain sentimentality in the man which gives him that touch of grace which alone can excuse deliberate picturesqueness. His eyes and mouth are by no means rascally; he has a fine voice and a ready wit; and whether he is really the strongest man in the party, or not, he looks it. He is certainly, the best fed, the best dressed, and the best trained. The fact that he speaks English is not unexpected in spite of the Spanish landscape; for with the exception of one man who might be guessed as a bullfighter ruined by drink and one unmistakable Frenchman, they are all cockney or American; therefore, in a land of cloaks and sombreros, they mostly wear seedy overcoats, woollen mufflers, hard hemispherical hats, and dirty brown gloves. Only a very few dress after their leader, whose broad sombrero with a cock’s feather in the band, and voluminous cloak descending to his high boots, are as un-English as possible. None of them are armed; and the ungloved ones keep their hands in their pockets because it is their national belief that it must be dangerously cold in the open air with the night coming on. (It is as warm an evening as any reasonable man could desire).

  Except the bullfighting inebriate there is only one person in the company who looks more than, say, thirty-three. He is a small man with reddish whiskers, weak eyes, and the anxious look of a small tradesman in difficulties. He wears the only tall hat visible: it shines in the sunset with the sticky glow of some sixpenny patent hat reviver, often applied and constantly tending to produce a worse state of the original surface than the ruin it was applied to remedy. He has a collar and cuff of celluloid; and his brown Chesterfield overcoat, with velvet collar, is still presentable. He is pre-eminently the respectable man of the party, and is certainly over forty, possibly over fifty. He is the corner man on the leader’s right, opposite three men in scarlet ties on his left. One of these three is the Frenchman. Of the remaining two, who are both English, one is argumentative, solemn, and obstinate; the other rowdy and mischievous.

  The chief, with a magnificent fling of the end of his cloak across his left shoulder, rises to address them. The applause which greets him shows that he is a favorite orator.

  THE CHIEF. Friends and fellow brigands. I have a proposal to make to this meeting. We have now spent three evenings in discussing the question Have Anarchists or Social-Democrats the most personal courage? We have gone into the principles of Anarchism and Social-Democracy at great length. The cause of Anarchy has been ably represented by our one Anarchist, who doesn’t know what Anarchism means [laughter] —

  THE ANARCHIST. [rising] A point of order, Mendoza —

  MENDOZA. [forcibly] No, by thunder: your last point of order took half an hour. Besides, Anarchists don’t believe in order.

  THE ANARCHIST. [mild, polite but persistent: he is, in fact, the respectable looking elderly man in the celluloid collar and cuffs] That is a vulgar error. I can prove —

  MENDOZA. Order, order.

  THE OTHERS [shouting] Order, order. Sit down. Chair! Shut up.

  The Anarchist is suppressed.

  MENDOZA. On the other hand we have three Social-Democrats among us. They are not on speaking terms; and they have put before us three distinct and incompatible views of Social-Democracy.

  THE MAJORITY. [shouting assent] Hear, hear! So we are. Right.

  THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [smarting under oppression] You ain’t no Christian. You’re a Sheeny, you are.

  MENDOZA. [with crushing magnanimity] My friend; I am an exception to all rules. It is true that I have the honor to be a Jew; and, when the Zionists need a leader to reassemble our race on its historic soil of Palestine, Mendoza will not be the last to volunteer [sympathetic applause — hear, hear, etc.]. But I am not a slave to any superstition. I have swallowed all the formulas, even that of Socialism; though, in a sense, once a Socialist, always a Socialist.

  THE SOCIAL-DEMOCRATS. Hear, hear!

  MENDOZA. But I am well aware that the ordinary man — even the ordinary brigand, who can scarcely be called an ordinary man [Hear, hear!] — is not a philosopher. Common sense is good enough for him; and in our business affairs common sense is good enough for me. Well, what is our business here in the Sierra Nevada, chosen by the Moors as the fairest spot in Spain? Is it to discuss abstruse questions of political economy? No: it is to hold up motor cars and secure a more equitable distribution of wealth.

  THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. All made by labor, mind you.

  MENDOZA. [urbanely] Undoubtedly. All made by labor, and on its way to be squandered by wealthy vagabonds in the dens of vice that disfigure the sunny shores of the Mediterranean. We intercept that wealth. We restore it to circulation among the class that produced it and that chiefly needs it — the working class. We do this at the risk of our lives and liberties, by the exercise of the virtues of courage, endurance, foresight, and abstinence — especially abstinence. I myself have eaten nothing but prickly pears and broiled rabbit for three days.

  THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [Stubbornly] No more ain’t we.

  MENDOZA. [indignantly] Have I taken more than my share?

  THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [unmoved] Why should you?

  THE ANARCHIST. Why should he not? To each according to his needs: from each according to his means.

  THE FRENCHMAN. [shaking his fist at the anarchist] Fumiste!

  MENDOZA. [diplomatically] I agree with both of you.

  THE GENUINELY ENGLISH BRIGANDS. Hear, hear! Bravo, Mendoza!

  MENDOZA. What I say is, let us treat one another as gentlemen, and strive to excel in personal courage only when we take the field.

  THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [derisively] Shikespear.

  A whistle comes from the goatherd on the hill. He springs up and points excitedly forward along the road to the north.

  THE GOATHERD. Automobile! Automobile! [He rushes down the hill and joins the rest, who all scramble to their feet].

  MENDOZA. [in ringing tones] To arms! Who has the gun?

  THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [handing a rifle to Mendoza] Here.

  MENDOZA. Have the nails been strewn in the road?

  THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. Two ahnces of em.

  MENDOZA. Good! [To the Frenchman] With me, Duval. If the nails fail, puncture their tires with a bullet. [He gives the rifle to Duval, who follows him up the hill. Mendoza produces an opera glass. The others hurry across to the road and disappear to the north].

  MENDOZA. [on the hill, using his glass] Two only, a capitalist and his chauffeur. They look English.

  DUVAL. Angliche! Aoh yess. Cochons! [Handling the rifle] Faut tire, n’est-ce-pas?

  MENDOZA. No: the nails have gone home. Their tire is down: they stop.

  DUVAL. [shouting to the others] Fondez sur eux, nom de Dieu!

  MENDOZA. [rebuking his excitement] Du calme, Duval: keep your hair on. They take it quietly. Let us descend and receive them.


  Mendoza descends, passing behind the fire and coming forward, whilst Tanner and Straker, in their motoring goggles, leather coats, and caps, are led in from the road by brigands.

  TANNER. Is this the gentleman you describe as your boss? Does he speak English?

  THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. Course he does. Y’don’t suppowz we Hinglishmen lets ahrselves be bossed by a bloomin Spenniard, do you?

  MENDOZA. [with dignity] Allow me to introduce myself: Mendoza, President of the League of the Sierra! [Posing loftily] I am a brigand: I live by robbing the rich.

  TANNER. [promptly] I am a gentleman: I live by robbing the poor. Shake hands.

  THE ENGLISH SOCIAL-DEMOCRATS. Hear, hear!

  General laughter and good humor. Tanner and Mendoza shake hands. The Brigands drop into their former places.

  STRAKER. Ere! where do I come in?

  TANNER. [introducing] My friend and chauffeur.

  THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [suspiciously] Well, which is he? friend or show-foor? It makes all the difference you know.

  MENDOZA. [explaining] We should expect ransom for a friend. A professional chauffeur is free of the mountains. He even takes a trifling percentage of his princpal’s ransom if he will honor us by accepting it.

  STRAKER. I see. Just to encourage me to come this way again. Well, I’ll think about it.

  DUVAL. [impulsively rushing across to Straker] Mon frere! [He embraces him rapturously and kisses him on both cheeks].

  STRAKER. [disgusted] Ere, git out: don’t be silly. Who are you, pray?

  DUVAL. Duval: Social-Democrat.

  STRAKER. Oh, you’re a Social-Democrat, are you?

  THE ANARCHIST. He means that he has sold out to the parliamentary humbugs and the bourgeoisie. Compromise! that is his faith.

  DUVAL. [furiously] I understand what he say. He say Bourgeois. He say Compromise. Jamais de la vie! Miserable menteur —

  STRAKER. See here, Captain Mendoza, ow much o this sort o thing do you put up with here? Are we avin a pleasure trip in the mountains, or are we at a Socialist meetin?

  THE MAJORITY. Hear, hear! Shut up. Chuck it. Sit down, etc. etc. [The Social-Democrats and the Anarchist are hurtled into the background. Straker, after superintending this proceeding with satisfaction, places himself on Mendoza’s left, Tanner being on his right].

  MENDOZA. Can we offer you anything? Broiled rabbit and prickly pears —

  TANNER. Thank you: we have dined.

  MENDOZA. [to his followers] Gentlemen: business is over for the day. Go as you please until morning.

  The Brigands disperse into groups lazily. Some go into the cave. Others sit down or lie down to sleep in the open. A few produce a pack of cards and move off towards the road; for it is now starlight; and they know that motor cars have lamps which can be turned to account for lighting a card party.

  STRAKER. [calling after them] Don’t none of you go fooling with that car, d’ye hear?

  MENDOZA. No fear, Monsieur le Chauffeur. The first one we captured cured us of that.

  STRAKER. [interested] What did it do?

  MENDOZA. It carried three brave comrades of ours, who did not know how to stop it, into Granada, and capsized them opposite the police station. Since then we never touch one without sending for the chauffeur. Shall we chat at our ease?

  TANNER. By all means.

  Tanner, Mendoza, and Straker sit down on the turf by the fire. Mendoza delicately waives his presidential dignity, of which the right to sit on the squared stone block is the appanage, by sitting on the ground like his guests, and using the stone only as a support for his back.

  MENDOZA. It is the custom in Spain always to put off business until to-morrow. In fact, you have arrived out of office hours. However, if you would prefer to settle the question of ransom at once, I am at your service.

  TANNER. To-morrow will do for me. I am rich enough to pay anything in reason.

  MENDOZA. [respectfully, much struck by this admission] You are a remarkable man, sir. Our guests usually describe themselves as miserably poor.

  TANNER. Pooh! Miserably poor people don’t own motor cars.

  MENDOZA. Precisely what we say to them.

  TANNER. Treat us well: we shall not prove ungrateful.

  STRAKER. No prickly pears and broiled rabbits, you know. Don’t tell me you can’t do us a bit better than that if you like.

  MENDOZA. Wine, kids, milk, cheese and bread can be procured for ready money.

  STRAKER. [graciously] Now you’re talking.

  TANNER. Are you all Socialists here, may I ask?

  MENDOZA. [repudiating this humiliating misconception] Oh no, no, no: nothing of the kind, I assure you. We naturally have modern views as to the justice of the existing distribution of wealth: otherwise we should lose our self-respect. But nothing that you could take exception to, except two or three faddists.

  TANNER. I had no intention of suggesting anything discreditable. In fact, I am a bit of a Socialist myself.

  STRAKER. [drily] Most rich men are, I notice.

  MENDOZA. Quite so. It has reached us, I admit. It is in the air of the century.

  STRAKER. Socialism must be looking up a bit if your chaps are taking to it.

  MENDOZA. That is true, sir. A movement which is confined to philosophers and honest men can never exercise any real political influence: there are too few of them. Until a movement shows itself capable of spreading among brigands, it can never hope for a political majority.

  TANNER. But are your brigands any less honest than ordinary citizens?

  MENDOZA. Sir: I will be frank with you. Brigandage is abnormal. Abnormal professions attract two classes: those who are not good enough for ordinary bourgeois life and those who are too good for it. We are dregs and scum, sir: the dregs very filthy, the scum very superior.

  STRAKER. Take care! some o the dregs’ll hear you.

  MENDOZA. It does not matter: each brigand thinks himself scum, and likes to hear the others called dregs.

  TANNER. Come! you are a wit. [Mendoza inclines his head, flattered]. May one ask you a blunt question?

  MENDOZA. As blunt as you please.

  TANNER. How does it pay a man of your talent to shepherd such a flock as this on broiled rabbit and prickly pears? I have seen men less gifted, and I’ll swear less honest, supping at the Savoy on foie gras and champagne.

  MENDOZA. Pooh! they have all had their turn at the broiled rabbit, just as I shall have my turn at the Savoy. Indeed, I have had a turn there already — as waiter.

  TANNER. A waiter! You astonish me!

  MENDOZA. [reflectively] Yes: I, Mendoza of the Sierra, was a waiter. Hence, perhaps, my cosmopolitanism. [With sudden intensity] Shall I tell you the story of my life?

  STRAKER. [apprehensively] If it ain’t too long, old chap —

  TANNER. [interrupting him] Tsh-sh: you are a Philistine, Henry: you have no romance in you. [To Mendoza] You interest me extremely, President. Never mind Henry: he can go to sleep.

  MENDOZA. The woman I loved —

  STRAKER. Oh, this is a love story, is it? Right you are. Go on: I was only afraid you were going to talk about yourself.

  MENDOZA. Myself! I have thrown myself away for her sake: that is why I am here. No matter: I count the world well lost for her. She had, I pledge you my word, the most magnificent head of hair I ever saw. She had humor; she had intellect; she could cook to perfection; and her highly strung temperament made her uncertain, incalculable, variable, capricious, cruel, in a word, enchanting.

  STRAKER. A six shillin novel sort o woman, all but the cookin. Er name was Lady Gladys Plantagenet, wasn’t it?

  MENDOZA. No, sir: she was not an earl’s daughter. Photography, reproduced by the half-tone process, has made me familiar with the appearance of the daughters of the English peerage; and I can honestly say that I would have sold the lot, faces, dowries, clothes, titles, and all, for a smile from this woman. Yet she was a woman of the people, a worker: otherwise — let me reciprocate your bluntn
ess — I should have scorned her.

  TANNER. Very properly. And did she respond to your love?

  MENDOZA. Should I be here if she did? She objected to marry a Jew.

  TANNER. On religious grounds?

  MENDOZA. No: she was a freethinker. She said that every Jew considers in his heart that English people are dirty in their habits.

  TANNER. [surprised] Dirty!

  MENDOZA. It showed her extraordinary knowledge of the world; for it is undoubtedly true. Our elaborate sanitary code makes us unduly contemptuous of the Gentile.

  TANNER. Did you ever hear that, Henry?

  STRAKER. I’ve heard my sister say so. She was cook in a Jewish family once.

  MENDOZA. I could not deny it; neither could I eradicate the impression it made on her mind. I could have got round any other objection; but no woman can stand a suspicion of indelicacy as to her person. My entreaties were in vain: she always retorted that she wasn’t good enough for me, and recommended me to marry an accursed barmaid named Rebecca Lazarus, whom I loathed. I talked of suicide: she offered me a packet of beetle poison to do it with. I hinted at murder: she went into hysterics; and as I am a living man I went to America so that she might sleep without dreaming that I was stealing upstairs to cut her throat. In America I went out west and fell in with a man who was wanted by the police for holding up trains. It was he who had the idea of holding up motors cars — in the South of Europe: a welcome idea to a desperate and disappointed man. He gave me some valuable introductions to capitalists of the right sort. I formed a syndicate; and the present enterprise is the result. I became leader, as the Jew always becomes leader, by his brains and imagination. But with all my pride of race I would give everything I possess to be an Englishman. I am like a boy: I cut her name on the trees and her initials on the sod. When I am alone I lie down and tear my wretched hair and cry Louisa —