New Burlesques
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7 NEW BURLESQUES
by Bret Harte
August, 2000 [Etext #2278]
Contains:
RUPERT THE RESEMBLER [After Rupert of Hentzau and Prisoner of Zenda]
THE STOLEN CIGAR CASE By A. CO--N D--LE
GOLLY AND THE CHRISTIAN, OR THE MINX AND THE MANXMAN
By H--LL C--NE
THE ADVENTURES OF JOHN LONGBOWE, YEOMAN
BEING A MODERN-ANTIQUE REALISTIC ROMANCE
(COMPILED FROM SEVERAL EMINENT SOURCES)
DAN'L BOREM BY E. N--S W--T--T
STORIES THREE BY R--DY--D K--PL--G
"ZUT-SKI" THE PROBLEM OF A WICKED FEME SOLE BY M--R--E C--R--LLI
RUPERT THE RESEMBLER
Br A--TH--Y H--PE
CHAPTER I
RUDOLPH OF TRULYRURALANIA
When I state that I was own brother to Lord Burleydon, had an
income of two thousand a year, could speak all the polite languages
fluently, was a powerful swordsman, a good shot, and could ride
anything from an elephant to a clotheshorse, I really think I have
said enough to satisfy any feminine novel-reader of Bayswater or
South Kensington that I was a hero. My brother's wife, however,
did not seem to incline to this belief.
"A more conceited, self-satisfied little cad I never met than you,"
she said. "Why don't you try to do something instead of sneering
at others who do? You never take anything seriously--except
yourself, which isn't worth it. You are proud of your red hair and
peaked nose just because you fondly believe that you got them from
the Prince of Trulyruralania, and are willing to think evil of your
ancestress to satisfy your snobbish little soul. Let me tell you,
sir, that there was no more truth about that than there was in that
silly talk of her partiality for her husband's red-haired
gamekeeper in Scotland. Ah! that makes you start--don't it? But I
have always observed that a mule is apt to remember only the horse
side of his ancestry!"
Whenever my pretty sister-in-law talks in this way I always try to
forget that she came of a family far inferior to our own, the
Razorbills. Indeed, her people--of the Nonconformist stock--really
had nothing but wealth and rectitude, and I think my brother Bob,
in his genuine love for her, was willing to overlook the latter for
the sake of the former.
My pretty sister-in-law's interest in my affairs always made me
believe that she secretly worshiped me--although it was a fact, as
will be seen in the progress of this story, that most women blushed
on my addressing them. I used to say it "was the reflection of my
red hair on a transparent complexion," which was rather neat--
wasn't it? And subtle? But then, I was always saying such subtle
things.
"My dear Rose," I said, laying down my egg spoon (the egg spoon
really had nothing to do with this speech, but it imparted such a
delightfully realistic flavor to the scene), "I'm not to blame if I
resemble the S'helpburgs."
"It's your being so beastly proud of it that I object to!" she
replied. "And for Heaven's sake, try to BE something, and not
merely resemble things! The fact is you resemble too much--you're
ALWAYS resembling. You resemble a man of fashion, and you're not;
a wit, and you're not; a soldier, a sportsman, a hero--and you're
none of 'em. Altogether, you're not in the least convincing. Now,
listen! There's a good chance for you to go as our attache with
Lord Mumblepeg, the new Ambassador to Cochin China. In all the
novels, you know, attaches are always the confidants of Grand
Duchesses, and know more state secrets than their chiefs; in real
life, I believe they are something like a city clerk with a leaning
to private theatricals. Say you'll go! Do!"
"I'll take a few months' holiday first," I replied, "and then," I
added in my gay, dashing way, "if the place is open--hang it if I
don't go!"
"Good old bounder!" she said, "and don't think too much of that
precious Prince Rupert. He was a bad lot."
She blushed again at me--as her husband entered.
"Take Rose's advice, Rupert, my boy," he said, "and go!"
And that is how I came to go to Trulyruralania. For I secretly
resolved to take my holiday in traveling in that country and
trying, as dear Lady Burleydon put it, really to be somebody,
instead of resembling anybody in particular. A precious lot SHE
knew about it!
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH MY HAIR CAUSES A LOT OF THINGS
You go to Trulyruralania from Charing Cross. In passing through
Paris we picked up Mlle. Beljambe, who was going to Kohlslau, the
capital of Trulyruralania, to marry the Grand Duke Michael, who,
however, as I was informed, was in love with the Princess Flirtia.
She blushed on seeing me--but, I was told afterwards, declined
being introduced to me on any account. However, I thought nothing
of this, and went on to Bock, the next station to Kohlslau. At the
little inn in the forest I was informed I was just in time to see
the coronation of the new king the next day. The landlady and her
daughter were very communicative, and, after the fashion of the
simple, guileless stage peasant, instantly informed me what
everybody was doing, and at once explained the situation. She told
me that the Grand Duke Michael--or Black Michael as he was called--
himself aspired to the throne, as well as to the hand of the
Princess Flirtia, but was hated by the populace, who preferred the
young heir, Prince Rupert; because he had the hair and features of
the dynasty of the S'helpburgs, "which," she added, "are singularly
like your own."
"But is red hair so very peculiar here?" I asked.
"Among the Jews--yes, sire! I mean yes, SIR," she corrected
herself. "You seldom see a red-headed Jew."
"The Jews!" I repeated in astonishment.
"Of course you know the S'helpburgs are descended directly from
Solomon--and have indeed some of his matrimonial peculiarities,"
she said, blushing.
I was amazed--but recalled myself. "But why do they call the Duke
of Kohlslau Black Michael?" I asked carelessly.
"Because be is nearly black, sir. You see, when the great Prince
Rupert went abroad in the old time he visited England, Scotland,
and Africa. They say he married an African lady there--and that
the Duke is really more in the direct line of succession than
Prince Rupert."
But here the daughter showed me to my room. She blushed, of
course, and apologized for not bringing a candle, as she thought my
hair was sufficiently illuminating. "But," she added with another
blush, "I do SO like it."
I replied by giving her something of no value,--a Belgian nickel
which wouldn't pass in Bock, as I had found to my cost. But my
hair had evidently attracted attention from others, for on my
return to the guest-room a stranger approached me, and in the
purest and most precise German--the Court or 'Olland Hof speech--
addressed me:
"Have you the red hair of the fair King or the hair of your
father?"
Luckily I was able to reply with the same purity and precision: "I
have both the hair of the fair King and my own. But I have not the
hair of my father nor of Black Michael, nor of the innkeeper nor
the innkeeper's wife. The red HEIR of the fair King would be a
son."
Possibly this delicate mot on the approaching marriage of the King
was lost in the translation, for the stranger strode abruptly away.
I learned, however, that the King was actually then in Bock, at the
castle a few miles distant, in the woods. I resolved to stroll
thither.
It was a fine old mediaeval structure. But as the singular
incidents I am about to relate combine the romantic and adventurous
atmosphere of the middle ages with all the appliances of modern
times, I may briefly state that the castle was lit by electricity,
bad fire-escapes on each of the turrets, four lifts, and was fitted
up by one of the best West End establishments. The sanitary
arrangements were excellent, and the drainage of the most perfect
order, as I had reason to know personally later. I was so affected
by the peaceful solitude that I lay down under a tree and presently
fell asleep. I was awakened by the sound of voices, and, looking
up, beheld two men bending over me. One was a grizzled veteran,
and the other a younger dandyfied man; both were dressed in
shooting suits.
"Never saw such a resemblance before in all my life," said the
elder man. "'Pon my soul! if the King hadn't got shaved yesterday
because the Princess Flirtia said his beard tickled her, I'd swear
it was he!"
I could not help thinking how lucky it was--for this narrative--
that the King HAD shaved, otherwise my story would have degenerated
into a mere Comedy of Errors. Opening my eyes, I said boldly:
"Now that you are satisfied who I resemble, gentlemen, perhaps you
will tell me who you are?"
"Certainly," said the elder curtly. "I am Spitz--a simple colonel
of his Majesty's, yet, nevertheless, the one man who runs this
whole dynasty--and this young gentleman is Fritz, my lieutenant.
And you are--?"
"My name is Razorbill--brother to Lord Burleydon," I replied
calmly.
"Good heavens! another of the lot!" he muttered. Then, correcting
himself, he said brusquely: "Any relation to that Englishwoman who
was so sweet on the old Rupert centuries ago?"
Here, again, I suppose my sister-in-law would have had me knock
down the foreign insulter of my English ancestress--but I colored
to the roots of my hair, and even farther--with pleasure at this
proof of my royal descent! And then a cheery voice was heard
calling "Spitz!" and "Fritz!" through the woods.
"The King!" said Spitz to Fritz quickly. "He must not see him."
"Too late," said Fritz, as a young man bounded lightly out of the
bushes.
I was thunderstruck! It was as if I had suddenly been confronted
with a mirror--and beheld myself! Of course he was not quite so
good-looking, or so tall, but he was still a colorable imitation!
I was delighted.
Nevertheless, for a moment he did not seem to reciprocate my
feeling. He stared at me, staggered back and passed his hand
across his forehead. "Can it be," he muttered thickly, "that I've
got 'em agin? Yet I only had--shingle glash!"
But Fritz quickly interposed.
"Your Majesty is all right--though," he added in a lower voice,
"let this be a warning to you for to-morrow! This gentleman is Mr.
Razorbill--you know the old story of the Razorbills?--Ha! ha!"
But the King did not laugh; he extended his hand and said gently,
"You are welcome--my cousin!" Indeed, my sister-in-law would have
probably said that--dissipated though he was--he was the only
gentleman there.
"I have come to see the coronation, your Majesty," I said.
"And you shall," said the King heartily, "and shall go with us!
The show can't begin without us--eh, Spitz?" he added playfully,
poking the veteran in the ribs, "whatever Michael may do!"
Then he linked his arms in Spitz's and mine. "Let's go to the hut--
and have some supper and fizz," he said gayly.
We went to the hut. We had supper. We ate and drank heavily. We
danced madly around the table. Nevertheless I thought that Spitz
and Fritz were worried by the King's potations, and Spitz at last
went so far as to remind his Majesty that they were to start early
in the morning for Kohlslau. I noticed also that as the King drank
his speech grew thicker and Spitz and Fritz exchanged glances. At
last Spitz said with stern significance:
"Your Majesty has not forgotten the test invariably submitted to
the King at his coronation?"
"Shertenly not," replied the King, with his reckless laugh. "The
King mush be able to pronounsh--name of his country--intel-lillil-
gibly: mush shay (hic!): 'I'm King of--King of--Tootoo-tooral-
looral-anyer.'" He staggered, laughed, and fell under the table.
"He cannot say it!" gasped Fritz and Spitz in one voice. "He is
lost!"
"Unless," said Fritz suddenly, pointing at me with a flash of
intelligence, "HE can personate him, and say it. Can you?" he
turned to me brusquely.
It was an awful moment. I had been drinking heavily too, but I
resolved to succeed. "I'm King of Trooly-rooly--" I murmured; but
I could not master it--I staggered and followed the King under the
table.
"Is there no one here," roared Spitz, "who can shave thish dynasty,
and shay 'Tooral--'? No! ---- it! I mean 'Trularlooral--'" but
he, too, lurched hopelessly forward.
"No one can say 'Tooral-looral--'" muttered Fritz; and, grasping
Spitz in despair, they both rolled under the table.
How long we lay there, Heaven knows! I was awakened by Spitz
playing the garden hose on me. He was booted and spurred, with
Fritz by his side. The King was lying on a bench, saying feebly:
"Blesh you, my chillen."
"By politely acceding to Black Michael's request to 'try our one-
and-six sherry,' he has been brought to this condition," said Spitz
bitterly. "It's a trick to keep him from being crowned. In this
country if the King is crowned while drunk, the kingdom instantly
reverts to a villain--no matter who. But in this case the villain
is Black Michael. Ha! What say you, lad? Shall we frustrate the
rascal, by having YOU personate the King?"
I was--well!--intoxicated at the thought! But what would my
sister-in-law say? Would she--in her Nonconformist conscience--
consider it strictly honorable? But I swept all scruples aside. A
King was to be saved! "I will go," I said. "Let us on to
Kohlslau--riding like the wind!" We rode like the wind, furiously,
madly. Mounted on a wild, dashing bay--known familiarly as the
"Bay of Biscay" from its rough turbulence--I easily kept the lead.
But our horses began to fail. Suddenly Spitz halted, clapped his
hand to his head, and threw himself from his horse. "Fools!" he
said, "we should have taken the train! It will get there an hour
before we will!" He pointed to a wayside station where the 7.15
excursion train for Kohlslau was waiting.
"But how dreadfully unmediaeval!--What will the public say?" I
began.
"Bother the public!" he said gruffly. "Who's running this dynasty--
you or I? Come!" With the assistance of Fritz he tied up my face
with a handkerchief to simulate toothache, and then, with a shout
of defiance, we three rushed madly into a closely packed third-
class carriage.
Never shall I forget the perils, the fatigue, the hopes and fears
of that mad journey. Panting, perspiring, packed together with
cheap trippers, but exalted with the one hope of saving the King,
we at last staggered out on the Kohlslau platform utterly
exhausted. As we did so we heard a distant roar from the city.
Fritz turned an ashen gray, Spitz a livid blue. "Are we too late?"
he gasped, as we madly fought our way into the street, where shouts
of "The King! The King!" were rending the air. "Can it be Black
Michael?" But here the crowd parted, and a procession, preceded by
outriders, flashed into the square. And there, seated in a
carriage beside the most beautiful red-haired girl I had ever seen,
was the King,--the King whom we had left two hours ago, dead drunk
in the hut in the forest!
CHAPTERS III TO XXII (Inclusive)
IN WHICH THINGS GET MIXED
We reeled against each other aghast! Spitz recovered himself
first. "We must fly!" he said hoarsely. "If the King has
discovered our trick--we are lost!"
"But where shall we go?" I asked.
"Back to the hut."
We caught the next train to Bock. An hour later we stood panting
within the hut. Its walls and ceiling were splashed with sinister
red stains. "Blood!" I exclaimed joyfully. "At last we have a
real mediaeval adventure!"
"It's Burgundy, you fool," growled Spitz; "good Burgundy wasted!"
At this moment Fritz appeared dragging in the hut-keeper.
"Where is the King?" demanded Spitz fiercely of the trembling
peasant.
"He was carried away an hour ago by Black Michael and taken to the
castle."
"And when did he LEAVE the castle?" roared Spitz.
"He never left the castle, sir, and, alas! I fear never will,
alive!" replied the man, shuddering.
We stared at each other! Spitz bit his grizzled mustache. "So,"
he said bitterly, "Black Michael has simply anticipated us with the
same game! We have been tricked. I knew it could not be the King
whom they crowned! No!" he added quickly, "I see it all--it was
Rupert of Glasgow!"
"Who is Rupert of Glasgow?" I cried.
"Oh, I really can't go over all that family rot again," grunted
Spitz. "Tell him, Fritz."
Then, taking me aside, Fritz delicately informed me that Rupert of
Glasgow--a young Scotchman--claimed equally with myself descent
from the old Rupert, and that equally with myself he resembled the
King. That Michael had got possession of him on his arrival in the
country, kept him closely guarded in the castle, and had hid his
resemblance in a black wig and false mustache; that the young
Scotchman, however, seemed apparently devoted to Michael and his
plots; and there was undoubtedly some secret understanding between
them. That it was evidently Michael's trick to have the pretender
crowned, and then, by exposing the fraud and the condition of the
real King, excite the indignation of the duped people, and seat
himself on the throne! "But," I burst out, "shall this base-born
pretender remain at Kohlslau beside the beautiful Princess Flirtia?
Let us to Kohlslau at once and hurl him from the throne!"
"One pretender is as good as another," said Spitz dryly. "But
leave HIM to me. 'Tis the King we must protect and succor! As for
that Scotch springald, before midnight I shall have him kidnaped,
brought back to his master in a close carriage, and you--YOU shall
take his place at Kohlslau."
"I will," I said enthusiastically, drawing my sword; "but I have
done nothing yet. Please let me kill something!"
"Aye, lad!" said Spitz, with a grim smile at my enthusiasm.
"There's a sheep in your path. Go out and cleave it to the saddle.
And bring the saddle home!"
My sister-in-law might have thought me cruel--but I did it.
CHAP XXIII AND SOME OTHER CHAPS
I know not how it was compassed, but that night Rupert of Glasgow
was left bound and gagged against the door of the castle, and the
night-bell pulled. And that night I was seated on the throne of
the S'helpburgs. As I gazed at the Princess Flirtia, glowing in
the characteristic beauty of the S'helpburgs, and admired her
striking profile, I murmured softly and half audibly: "Her nose is
as a tower that looketh toward Damascus."
She looked puzzled, and knitted her pretty brows. "Is that
poetry?" she asked.
"No" I said promptly. "It's only part of a song of our great
Ancestor." As she blushed slightly, I playfully flung around her
fair neck the jeweled collar of the Order of the S'helpburgs--three
golden spheres pendant, quartered from the arms of Lombardy---with
the ancient Syric motto, El Ess Dee.
She toyed with it a moment, and then said softly: "You have
changed, Rupert. Do ye no ken hoo?"
I looked at her--as surprised at her dialect as at the imputation.
"You don't talk that way, as you did. And you don't say, 'It WILL
be twelve o'clock,' when you mean, 'It IS twelve o'clock,' nor 'I
will be going out,' when you mean 'I AM.' And you didn't say, 'Eh,
sirs!' or 'Eh, mon,' to any of the Court--nor 'Hoot awa!' nor any
of those things. And," she added with a divine little pout, "you
haven't told me I was 'sonsie' or 'bonnie' once."
I could with difficulty restrain myself. Rage, indignation, and
jealousy filled my heart almost to bursting. I understood it all;
that rascally Scotchman had made the most of his time, and dared to
get ahead of me! I did not mind being taken for the King, but to
be confounded with this infernal descendant of a gamekeeper--was
too much! Yet with a superhuman effort I remained calm--and even
smiled.
"You are not well?" said the Princess earnestly. "I thought you
were taking too much of the Strasbourg pie at supper! And you are
not going, surely--so soon?" she added, as I rose.
"I must go at once," I said. "I have forgotten some important
business at Bock."
"Not boar hunting again?" she said poutingly.
"No, I'm hunting a red dear," I said with that playful subtlety
which would make her take it as a personal compliment, though I was
only thinking of that impostor, and longing to get at him, as I
bowed and withdrew.
In another hour I was before Black Michael's castle at Bock. These
are lightning changes, I know--and the sovereignty of
Trulyruralania WAS somewhat itinerant--but when a kingdom and a
beautiful Princess are at stake, what are you to do? Fritz had
begged me to take him along, but I arranged that he should come
later, and go up unostentatiously in the lift. I was going by way
of the moat. I was to succor the King, but I fear my real object
was to get at Rupert of Glasgow.
I had noticed the day before that a large outside drain pipe,
decreed by the Bock County Council, ran from the moat to the third
floor of the donjon keep. I surmised that the King was imprisoned
on that floor. Examining the pipe closely, I saw that it was
really a pneumatic dispatch tube, for secretly conveying letters
and dispatches from the castle through the moat beyond the castle
walls. Its extraordinary size, however, gave me the horrible
conviction that it was to be used to convey the dead body of the
King to the moat. I grew cold with horror--but I was determined.
I crept up the pipe. As I expected, it opened funnel-wise into a
room where the poor King was playing poker with Black Michael. It
took me but a moment to dash through the window into the room, push
the King aside, gag and bind Black Michael, and lower him by a
stout rope into the pipe he had destined for another. Having him
in my power, I lowered him until I heard his body splash in the
water in the lower part of the pipe. Then I proceeded to draw him
up again, intending to question him in regard to Rupert of Glasgow.
But this was difficult, as his saturated clothing made him fit the
smooth pipe closely. At last I had him partly up, when I was
amazed at a rush of water from the pipe which flooded the room. I
dropped him and pulled him up again with the same result. Then in
a flash I saw it all. His body, acting like a piston in the pipe,
had converted it into a powerful pump. Mad with joy, I rapidly
lowered and pulled him up again and again, until the castle was
flooded--and the moat completely drained! I had created the
diversion I wished; the tenants of the castle were disorganized and
bewildered in trying to escape from the deluge, and the moat was
accessible to my friends. Placing the poor King on a table to be
out of the water, and tying up his head in my handkerchief to
disguise him from Michael's guards, I drew my sword and plunged
downstairs with the cataract in search of the miscreant Rupert. I
reached the drawbridge, when I heard the sounds of tumult and was
twice fired at,--once, as I have since learned, by my friends,
under the impression that I was the escaping Rupert of Glasgow, and
once by Black Michael's myrmidons, under the belief that I was the
King. I was struck by the fact that these resemblances were
confusing and unfortunate! At this moment, however, I caught sight
of a kilted figure leaping from a lower window into the moat. Some
instinct impelled me to follow it. It rapidly crossed the moat and
plunged into the forest, with me in pursuit. I gained upon it;
suddenly it turned, and I found myself again confronted with
MYSELF--and apparently the King! But that very resemblance made me
recognize the Scotch pretender, Rupert of Glasgow. Yet he would
have been called a "braw laddie," and his handsome face showed a
laughing good humor, even while he opposed me, claymore in hand.
"Bide a wee, Maister Rupert Razorbill," he said lightly, lowering
his sword, "before we slit ane anither's weasands. I'm no claimin'
any descent frae kings, and I'm no acceptin' any auld wife's
clavers against my women forbears, as ye are! I'm just paid gude
honest siller by Black Michael for the using of ma face and figure--
sic time as his Majesty is tae worse frae trink! And I'm
commeesioned frae Michael to ask ye what price YE would take to
join me in performing these duties--turn and turn aboot. Eh,
laddie--but he would pay ye mair than that daft beggar, Spitz."
Rage and disgust overpowered me. "And THIS is my answer," I said,
rushing upon him.
I have said earlier in these pages that I was a "strong" swordsman.
In point of fact, I had carefully studied in the transpontine
theatres that form of melodramatic mediaeval sword-play known as
"two up and two down." To my disgust, however, this wretched
Scotchman did not seem to understand it, but in a twinkling sent my
sword flying over my head. Before I could recover it, he had
mounted a horse ready saddled in the wood, and, shouting to me that
he would take my "compleements" to the Princess, galloped away.
Even then I would have pursued him afoot, but, hearing shouts
behind me, I turned as Spitz and Fritz rode up.
"Has the King escaped to Kohlslau?" asked Fritz, staring at me.
"No," I said, "but Rupert of Glasgow"--
"--Rupert of Glasgow," growled Spitz. "We've settled him! He's
gagged and bound and is now on his way to the frontier in a close
carriage."
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