Rudyard Kipling's Tales of Horror and Fantasy (92 page)

‘Verygood,' I began. ‘I am, as you know, a one-third proprietor of
The Bun
.'

‘I didn't forget that,' Ollyett interrupted. ‘That was uppermost in my mind all the time. I've got a special account for
The Bun
to-day – it's an idyll – and just to show how I thought of you, I told 'Dal, coming home, about your Gubby Dance, and she told Winnie. Winnie came back in our char-à-banc. After a bit we had to get out and dance it in a field. It's quite a dance the way we did it – and Lafone invented a sort of gorilla lockstep procession at the end. Bat had sent down a film-chap on the chance of getting something. He was the son of a clergyman – a most dynamic personality. He said there isn't anything for the cinema in meetings
qua
meetings – they lack action. Films are a branch of art by themselves. But he went wild over the Gubby. He said it was like Peter's vision at Joppa. He took about a million feet of it. Then I photoed it exclusive for
The Bun.
I've sent 'em in already, only remember we must eliminate Winnie's left leg in the first figure. It's too arresting … And there you are! But I tell you I'm afraid of Bat. That man's the Personal Devil. He did it all. He didn't even come down himself. He said he'd distract his people.'

‘Why didn't he ask me to come?' I persisted.

‘Because he said you'd distract me. He said he wanted my brains on ice. He got 'em. I believe it's the best thing I've ever done.' He reached for
The Cake
and re-read it luxuriously. ‘Yes, out and away the best – supremely quotable,' he concluded, and – after another survey – ‘By God, what a genius I was yesterday!'

I would have been angry, but I had not the time. That morning, Press agencies grovelled to me in
The Bun
office for leave to use certain photos, which, they understood, I controlled, of a certain village dance. When I had sent the fifth man away on the edge of tears, my self-respect came back a little. Then there was
The Bun
'sposter to get out. Art being elimination, I fined it down to two words (one too many, as it proved) – ‘The Gubby!' in red, at which our manager protested; but by five o'clock he told me that I was the Napoleon of FleetStreet.Ollyett'saccountin
TheBun
of the

Geoplanarians' Exercises and Love Feast lacked the supreme shock of his version in
The Cake
,but it bruised more; while the photos of ‘The Gubby' (which, with Winnie's left leg, was why I had set the doubtful press to work so early) were beyond praise and, next day, beyond price. But even then I did not understand.

A week later, I think it was, Bat Masquerier telephoned to me to come to the Trefoil.

‘It's your turn now,' he said. ‘I'm not asking Ollyett. Come to the stage-box.'

I went, and, as Bat's guest, was received as Royalty is not. We sat well back and looked out on the packed thousands. It was
Morgiana and Drexel
,that fluid and electric review which Bat – though he gave Lafone the credit – really created.

‘Ye-es,' said Bat dreamily, after Morgiana had given ‘the nasty jar' to the Forty Thieves in their forty oil ‘combinations'. ‘As you say, I've got 'em and I can hold 'em. What a man does doesn't matter much; and how he does it don't matter either. It's the
when –
the psychological moment. 'Press can't make up for it; money can't; brains can't. A lot's luck, but all the rest is genius. I'm not speaking about My people now. I'm talking of Myself.'

Then 'Dal – she was the only one who dared – knocked at the door and stood behind us all alive and panting as Morgiana. Lafone was carrying the police-court scene, and the house was ripped up crossways with laughter.

‘Ah! Tell a fellow now,' she asked me for the twentieth time, ‘did you love Nellie Farren when you were young?'

‘Did we love her?' I answered. “If the earth and the sky and the sea” – There were three million of us, 'Dal, and we worshipped her.'

‘How did she get it across?''Dal went on.

‘She was Nellie. The houses used to coo over her when she came on.'

‘I've had a good deal, but I've never been cooed over yet,'said 'Dal wistfully.

‘It isn't the how, it's the when,' Bat repeated. ‘Ah!'

He leaned forward as the house began to rock and pealfull-throatedly. 'Dal fled. A sinuous and silent procession was filing into the police-court to a scarcely audible accompaniment. It was dressed – but the world and all its picture-palaces know how it was dressed. It danced and it danced, and it danced the dance which bit all humanity in the leg for half a year, and it wound up with the lockstep finale that mowed the house down in swathes, sobbing and aching. Somebody in the gallery moaned, ‘Oh Gord, the Gubby!' and we heard the word run like a shudder, for they had not a full breath left among them. Then 'Dal came on, an electric star in her dark hair, the diamonds flashing in her three-inch heels – a vision that made no sign for thirty counted seconds while the police-court scene dissolved behind her into Morgiana's Manicure Palace, and they recovered themselves. The star on her forehead went out, and a soft light bathed her as she took – slowly, slowly to the croon of adoring strings – the eighteen paces forward. We saw her first as a queen alone; next as a queen for the first time conscious of her subjects, and at the end, when her hands fluttered, as a woman delighted, awed not a little, but transfigured and illuminated with sheer, compelling affection and goodwill. I caught the broken mutter of welcome – the coo which is more than tornadoesof applause. It died and rose and died again lovingly.

‘She's got it across,' Bat whispered. ‘I've never seen her like this. I told her to light up the star, but I was wrong, and she knew it. She's an artist.'

‘ 'Dal, you darling!' some one spoke, not loudly but it carried through the house.

‘Thank
you
!”'Dal answered, and in that broken tone one heard the last fetter riveted. ‘Good evening, boys! I've just come from – now – where the dooce was it I have come from?'She turned to the impassive files of the Gubby dancers, and went on: ‘Ah, so good of you to remind me, you dear, bun-faced things. I've just come from the village — The Village that Voted the Earth was Flat.'

She swept into that song with the full orchestra. It devastated the habitable earth for the next six months. Imagine, then, what its rage andpulse must havebeenat theincandescent hour of its birth! She only gave the chorus once. At the end of the second verse, ‘Are you
with
me, boys?' she cried, and the house tore it clean away from her – ‘
Earth
was flat –
Earth
was flat. Flat as my hat – Flatter than that'– drowning all but the bassoons and double-basses that marked the word.

‘Wonderful,' I said to Bat. ‘And it's only “Nuts in May” with variations.'

‘Yes – but I did the variations,' he replied.

At the last verse she gestured to Carlini the conductor, who threw her up his baton. She caught it with a boy's ease. ‘Are you with me?' she cried once more, and – the maddened house behind her – abolished all the instruments except the guttural belch of the double-basses on ‘
Earth
'
–
The village that voted the
Earth
was Flat –
Earth
was flat!' It was delirium. Then she picked up the Gubby dancers and led them in a clattering improvised lockstep thrice round the stage till her last kick sent her diamond-hiked shoe Catherine-wheeling to the electrolier.

‘I saw the forest of hands raised to catch it, heard the roaring and stamping pass through hurricanes to full typhoon; heard the song, pinned down by the faithful double-basses as the bull-dog pins down the bellowing bull, overbear even those; till at last the curtain fell and Bat took me round to her dressing-room, where she lay spent after her seventh call. Still the song, through all those white-washed walls, shook the reinforced concrete of the Trefoil as steam pile-drivers shake the flanks of a dock.

‘I'm all out – first time in my life. Ah! Tell a fellow now, did I get it across?' she whispered huskily.

‘You know you did,' I replied as she dipped her nose deep in a beaker of barley-water. ‘They cooed over you.'

Bat nodded. ‘And poor Nellie's dead – in Africa, ain't it?'

‘I hope I'll die before they stop cooing,' said 'Dal.

‘“
Earth
was flat –
Earth
was flat!”' Now it was more like mine-pumps in flood.

‘They'll have the house down if you don't take another,' some one called.

‘Bless 'em!' said 'Dal, and went out for her eighth, when in the face of that cataract she said yawning, ‘I don't know how
you
feel, children, but
I'm
dead. You be quiet.'

‘Hold a minute,' said Bat to me. ‘I've got to hear how it went in the provinces. Winnie Deans had it in Manchester, and Ramsden at Glasgow – and there are all the films too. I had rather a heavy week-end.'

The telephones presently reassured him.

‘It'll do,' said he. ‘And
he
said my home address was Jerusalem.' He left me humming the refrain of ‘The Holy City.' Like Ollyett I found myself afraid of that man.

When I got out into the street and met the disgorging picture-palaces capering on the pavements and humming it (for he had put the gramophones on with the films), and when I saw far to the south the red electrics flash ‘Gubby' across the Thames, I feared more than ever.

A few days passed which were like nothing except, perhaps, a suspense of fever in which the sick man perceives the searchlights of the world's assembled navies in act to converge on one minute fragment of wreckage – one only in all the black and agony-strewn sea. Then those beams focussed themselves. Earth as we knew it – the full circuit of our orb – laid the weight of its impersonal and searing curiosity on this Huckley which had voted that it was flat. It asked for news about Huckley – where and what it might be, and how it talked – it knew how it danced – and how it thought in its wonderful soul. And then, in all the zealous, merciless press, Huckley was laid out for it to look at, as a drop of pond water is exposed on the sheet of a magic-lantern show. But Huckley's sheet was only coterminous with the use of type among mankind. For the precise moment that was necessary, Fate ruled it that there should be nothing of first importance in the world's idle eye. One atrocious murder, a political crisis, an incautious or heady continental statesman, the mere catarrh of a king, would have wiped out the significance of our message, as a passing cloud annuls the urgent helio. But it was halcyon weather in every respect. Ollyett and I did notneed to lift: our little fingers any more than the Alpine climber whose last sentence has unkeyed the arch of the avalanche. The thing roared and pulverised and swept beyond eyesight all by itself– all by itself. And once well away, the fall of kingdoms could not have diverted it.

Ours is, after all, a kindly earth. While The Song ran and raped it with the cataleptic kick of ‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,'multiplied by the West African significance of ‘Everybody's doing it,' plus twice the infernal elementality of a certain tune in
Dona et Gamma
;when for all practical purposes, literary, dramatic, artistic, social, municipal, political, commercial, and administrative, the Earth
was
flat, the Rector of Huckley wrote to us – again as a lover of accuracy – to point out that the Huckley vote on ‘the alleged flatness of this scene of our labours here below' was
not
unanimous; he and the doctor having voted against it. And the great Baron Reuter himself (I am sure it could have been none other) flashed that letter in full to the front, back, and both wings of this scene of our labours. For Huckley was News.
The Bun
also contributed a photograph which cost me some trouble to fake.

‘We are a vital nation,' said Ollyett while we were discussing affairs at a Bat dinner. ‘Only an Englishman could have written that letter at this present juncture.'

‘It reminded me of a tourist in the Cave of the Winds under Niagara. Just one figure in a mackintosh. But perhaps you saw our photo?' I said proudly.

‘Yes,' Bat replied. ‘I've been to Niagara, too. And how's Huckley taking it?'

‘They don't quite understand, of course,' said Ollyett. ‘But it's bringing pots of money into the place. Ever since the motor-bus excursions were started—'

‘I didn't know they had been,' said Pallant.

‘Oh yes. Motor char-à-bancs – uniformed guides and key-bugles included. They're getting a bit fed up with the tune there nowadays,' Ollyett added.

‘They play it under his windows, don't they?' Bat asked. ‘He can't stop the right of way across his park.'

‘He cannot,' Ollyett answered. ‘By the way, Woodhouse,I've bought that font for you from the sexton. I paid fifteen pounds for it.'

‘What am I supposed to do with it?' asked Woodhouse.

‘You give it to the Victoria and Albert Museum. It is fourteenth-century work all right. You can trust me.'

‘Is it worth it – now?' said Pallant. ‘Not that I'm weakening, but merely as a matter of tactics?'

‘But this is true,' said Ollyett. ‘Besides, it is my hobby, I always wanted to be an architect. I'll attend to it myself. It's too serious for
The Bun
and miles too good for
The Cake.
'

He broke ground in a ponderous architectural weekly, which had never heard of Huckley. There was no passion in his statement, but mere fact backed by a wide range of authorities. He established beyond doubt that the old font at Huckley had been thrown out, on Sir Thomas's instigation, twenty years ago, to make room for a new one of Bath stone adorned with Limoges enamels; and that it had lain ever since in a corner of the sexton's shed. He proved, with learned men to support him, that there was only one other font in all England to compare with it. So Woodhouse bought it and presented it to a grateful South Kensington which said it would see the earth still flatter before it returned the treasure to purblind Huckley. Bishops by the benchful and most of the Royal Academy, not to mention ‘Margaritas ante Porces,'wrote fervently to the papers.
Punch
based a political cartoon on it; the
Times
a third leader, ‘The Lust of Newness'; and the
Spectator
a scholarly and delightful middle, ‘Village Haus-mania.' The vast amused outside world said in all its tongues and types: ‘Of course! This is just what Huckley would do!'And neither Sir Thomas nor the Rector nor the sexton nor any one else wrote to deny it.