# Cæsar Cascabel/Part 2/Chapter XIV
## CHAPTER XIV. A DENOUEMENT WARMLY APPLAUDED BY THE SPECTATORS.

THE play, which bore the equally new and attractive title, “The Brigands of the Black Forest,” was a remarkable work of art. Composed in strict accordance with the ancient precepts of dramaturgy, it was based on the unity of time, action, and place. Its introduction neatly defined the characters of the various personages, the plot worked them well into a powerful imbroglio, the dénouement cleverly disentangled the plot; and, though foreseen, the issue produced, none the less, a very great effect. Nor did it lack even the sensational scene so loudly insisted upon by our modern critics, and that scene was a success.
For the rest, the public should have been ill-advised to expect from the Cascabel family one of those modern-taste plays, where all the details of private life are laid in the nude on the stage; where, if crime does not actually triumph, virtue is at times but sparingly rewarded. No, at the closing scene of the “Brigands of the Black Forest,” innocence was acknowledged according to the rule, and wickedness met with due punishment under the most convenient form. The police suddenly appeared, just as all seemed hopelessly lost, and when they laid hand on the brigand, the hall broke out with loud cheers.
No doubt about it, the piece would have been written in a simple, powerful, personal style, respectful of grammar, and free from those pretentious neologisms, those documentary expressions and realistic terms of the new school,—if it had been written. But it was not written any more than spoken, and hence it could be played on all the stages, as on all the trestles, of the two worlds. An immense advantage this is for dumb shows, not to speak of the many errors of grammar and of orthoepy, which are entirely avoided in this kind of literature.
A remark has been made above anent the style of drama that should not be expected from the Cascabel family. The simple fact is that Cæser Cascabel himself was the composer of the particular masterpiece in question. “Masterpiece” is the word, since, adding up the old world with the new, it had been played three thousand one hundred and seventy-seven times! And he had so contrived it as to bring out in striking relief the special talents of the individual members of his troupe, talents so varied and so real that no such galaxy of artists had ever been presented to the public by the manager of any company, whether stationary or itinerant.
The masters of the contemporaneous drama have very justly laid down the principle: “On the stage you must always make your audience laugh or cry, or else they will yawn.” Well, if all the dramatist's art is contained in that axiom, “The Brigands of the Black Forest” deserves to be styled a masterpiece a hundred times over. The spectators laugh even to tears, and weep—to tears likewise. There is not a scene, nor part of a scene, where the most heedless looker-on experiences the desire to open his mouth to yawn; and should that sensation, perchance, force itself upon him as the result of a dyspeptic affection, the incipient awn would surely be turned to a sob or a chuckle.
Like all well-planned dramas, this one was clear, rapid, simple in its evolution as in its conception. The facts followed each other in such logical succession as to suggest the probability of their having happened in the real world.
Let the reader judge of it by the following necessarily succinct account.
It was the story of two lovers who worshiped each other,—and for convenience sake, let it be stated, right here, that Napoleona was the fair loved one, and Sander was the young swain. But alas, Sander is poor, and Napoleona's mother, the haughty Cornelia, will not hear of the match!
The particularly new point in the plot is that “the course of true love” is, in addition, prevented from “running smooth” by the presence of a long, lanky suitor, Clovy, with pockets as full of gold as his skull is void of brain; and that the mother—here perhaps the author's inventive genius shines forth with more eclat still—the mother, who has an eye to the gold, does not ask better than to give him her daughter.
It would be really difficult to weave a plot more dexterously or to render it more interesting. Needless to say that silly Clovy never opens his lips, but the audience expects him to drop some absurd saying or another. He is ridiculous in his person, ridiculous in his disjointed gait, and has a habit of poking his overgrown nasal appendix everywhere. And when he stalks forward with his two wedding presents, John Bull, the ape, grinning from ear to ear, and Jako, the parrot (the only one of all the artists who speaks in this piece), the effect is side-splitting.
The boisterous laughter soon subsides, however, before the profound grief of the two young people, who can see each other only by stealth.
And now the fatal day has come for the sealing of the union, forced by Cornelia upon her daughter. Napoleona has been decked in the most charming style, but her tearful face is the picture of despair. And truly, it is a crime to give away the pretty little dove to that ugly-looking stork.
All this takes place on the village green in front of the church. The bell rings; the doors are thrown open; the bridal cortege has but to enter. Sander is there kneeling on the marble steps; they will have to trample him under foot. It is heartrending.
Suddenly, a young warrior appears, and the canvas walls tremble at his presence. It is John, the brother of the broken-hearted bride. He is returning from the wars, after conquering all his enemies,—whose names may vary according to the country in which the play is acted, Englishmen in America, Russians in Turkey, Frenchmen in Germany, and so on, ad infinitum.
The brave and affectionate John arrives in the nick of time, and will very quickly settle matters his own way. He has heard that Sander dotes on Napoleona, and that she is equally enamoured of him. Straightway, having spun Clovy around with a twist of his powerful arm, he challenges him to fight, and the half-witted fellow is seized with such a fright that he gladly gives up all claims to his bride.
This will be readily acknowledged to be a well-filled drama, and a lively succession of events. But the end has not come yet.
The repentant bridegroom turns toward Cornelia to release her of her promise. Cornelia has disappeared. There is a general rush in search of her—She is nowhere to be seen!
Presently cries are heard from the depths of the neighboring forest. Sander recognizes the voice of Cornelia, and although his future mother-in-law is in question, he does not hesitate—he flies to her help. Evidently, the proud lady has been kidnapped by Fracassar's band, perhaps by Fracassar himself, the famous brigand chief of the Black Forest.
As a matter of fact, that is precisely what has happened. While John keeps close to his sister to protect her in case of need, Clovy tugs at the church bell and alarms the villagers. A shot is heard—The public pants for breath. It would be hard for the stage to tax the fibers of the human heart farther.
It is at this moment that Mr. Cascabel, in the full Calabrian costume of the terrible Fracassar, appears on the scene at the head of his men, carrying off Cornelia in spite of her masculine resistance. But the heroic youth returns with a brigade of policemen, booted right up to the hip. His mother-in-law is delivered, the brigands are captured, and the happy Sander marries his beloved Napoleona.
It is but right to add that, owing to the small number of the performers, the main body of the brigands never appears on the scene, nor does the full platoon of policemen. On Clovy devolves the task of imitating their various cries and shouts behind the scenes, and he does it so perfectly as to deceive the hearers. As to the captain of the brigands, he has to put the handcuffs on his own hands for want of available supernumeraries. Withal, it could not be repeated too emphatically, the effect of this finale—thanks to its eloquent rendering—is extraordinary.
Such then was the offspring of Cæser Cascabel's mighty brain, which was about being played at the circus of Perm. Certain it was of its usual success, provided the interpreters should be up to the standard of the piece.
Generally speaking, they were so: Mr. Cascabel was as terrible as any bandit could look; Cornelia was infatuated with her noble birth and fortune; John, a true knight (old style), Sander very sympathetic, Napoleona such as would move the heart of a stone.
But, it must be confessed, the Cascabel family was not up to its habitual merry pitch on this occasion. Sad looks and sad hearts were the order of the day; and on the “histrionic boards,” what would become of the necessary spirit? The play of the features would be uncertain, the gesture-replies would not be given with the required clearness. Perhaps the tearful episodes might be more life-like since everybody felt inclined to weep; but whenever fun and frolic held their court, the piece was likely to prove, as its author had said, a painful fiasco.
The noon-day meal was laid on the table. At the sight of the still vacant chair,—bitter foretaste of the approaching parting,—the general gloom became more intense, if possible. Nobody was hungry, nobody was thirsty. There was more than enough to exasperate the meekest of managers. Cascabel could not stand it, and he would not if he could. He had eaten as much as four navvies and drank in proportion. Why should others act differently?
“Now then!” he exclaimed. “Is this going to last much longer? I see nothing but faces as long as my arm, all around the table; to begin with you, Cornelia, and end with you, Napoleona. Why, Clovy is the only one whose face is about half admissible! Now I won't have that, I say I won't have it, at all! I must have cheerful people about me! To-night everybody must act his part with a smile on his face, and put plenty of ‘go’ into it, and bring down the house! I say everybody must—or, by the blood of my fathers—!”
This was the ne plus ultra of Cascabel's wrath, and whenever he uttered the fearful threat, the hearers knew there was nothing left them but to obey.
This terrific explosion, however, had in no way interfered with the bringing forth of a new idea in the fruitful brain of the said Cascabel, an event of habitual occurrence in all critical circumstances.
He had resolved on complementing his play, or rather in adding to the strength of his mise en schie; in what manner will be known forthwith.
It has been said that, hitherto, for lack of hands, the brigands and their pursuers were wisely kept out of sight. The brigand Fracassar-Cascabel was a host in himself. Still, he thought very judiciously that the piece would be more effective if there was a general muster of all the actors in the drama, in the final scene.
He should see to recruiting a few supers for this occasion. And, as good luck would have it, had he not Ortik and Kirschef just at hand? Why should these two “honest sailors” decline to play the part of highwaymen?
Before he left the stormy dinner-table, he explained the situation to the former, and added:
“How would you two like to take a part in the performance as robbers? You would render me a real service, friends!”
“Why, of course!” said Ortik. “I don't ask better, nor Kirschef, either; do you, mate?”
Kirschef assented at once, it being naturally the interest of the two ruffians to be on the best terms with their hosts.
“That's all right, then, my friends,” continued Mr. Cascabel. “Besides, you will only have to come on with me when I appear on the scene, just at the winding up, and you'll have to do just like me: roll your eyes around, throw your arms and legs about, and roar with rage. You'll see: it's the easiest thing out! I'll bet a hundred to one you'll make a prodigious hit!”
Then, after a moment's thought:
“By the way, the two of you will only make two brigands. That's not enough. No, for Fracassar had a whole gang under his orders. If I could get five or six more men, the effect would be grander! Mightn't you find me, round about the town, a few ‘disengaged gentlemen’ who would not say ‘no’ to a good bottle of vodka and a half rouble?”
Ortik cast a furtive glance toward Kirschef.
“Most likely we might, Mr. Cascabel. Last night, at the tavern, we met half a dozen fellows.”
“Bring them, Ortik; fetch them here this evening, and my dénouement is A 1!”
“That's a bargain, sir.”
“Very good, my friends!—What a performance this is going to be! What a sensation for the public!”
And when the two sailors had got quite out of sight, Mr. Cascabel was seized with such a fit of irrepressible laughter that several of his vest-buttons were shot about in the little room.
Cornelia feared he might go into convulsions.
“Cæsar, you should really not laugh in that way so soon after eating!” she said to him.
“Cornelia, my dear—did your husband smile? Why, I am in no mood for doing any such thing!—If I did, it was unknown to myself. At heart I am truly grieved! Just think of it! Here it is, one o'clock! And our good Mr. Sergius is not back yet! And he won't be in time to make his début as the prestidigitateur of the troupe, either! Could anything be more unlucky!”
And while Cornelia returned to her dresses, he walked out, merely remarking he had some few indispensable errands to go on.
The performance was to commence at four o'clock,—a saving of artificial light, the apparatus for which was sadly deficient at the Perm circus! In any case, was not the bloom on Napoleona's cheeks fresh enough, and her mother's handsome features sufficiently well-preserved to make them boldly face the glare of broad noonday?
It would be difficult to realize the effect produced in the little town by Cæsar Cascabel's wonder-telling bill, not to speak of Clovy's big drum, which for a whole hour had filled the streets with its unearthly rattle. All the Russias of the Czar must have been roused from their slumber!
The result was that, at the aforesaid hour, quite a crowd besieged the circus: the governor of Perm, with his wife and children; a certain number of his subordinates, and several officers of the citadel could be seen waiting for the eventful moment, as well as a quantity of small traders, brought to town by the fair; in a word, an enormous concourse of people.
At the door the musical element of the troupe was in full force and vigor: Sander, Napoleona, and Clovy were there, with French horn, trombone and tambourine; and Cornelia, in flesh-color tights and pink skirt, presided at the drum. The discordant pandemonium was only fit for moujiks' ears!
Nor should Cæsar Cascabel's powerful voice be forgotten, calling out in good and intelligible Russian:
“Take your seats! Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen! It is forty kopecks per seat—without any distinction! Now is the time to go in!”
And as soon as the ladies and gentlemen had taken their seats on the benches of the circus, there was an eclipse of the orchestra, the members of which had now to take their several parts in the evening's program.
The first part was gone through without a hitch. Little Napoleona on the tight-rope, young Sander in his contortions, the clever dogs, the ape and the parrot in their drolleries, Mr. and Mrs. Cascabel in their displays of strength and of skill, obtained a real success. Of the warm applause bestowed on such deserving artists John also had his share. With his mind elsewhere, his hand may not perhaps have done full justice to his talent as an equilibrist. But this was detected by none but the master's eye, and the public never dreamt that the poor fellow was far from being heart and soul in his work.
As to the human pyramid, which preceded the interlude, it was unanimously encored.
In truth, Mr. Cascabel's verve and humor in presenting his artists, and looking around for the ever-ready applause they merited so well, had been astounding. Never had this superior man shown to a greater extent how far a determined nature can master its own self down. The honor of the Cascabel family was safe! Its name would be handed down among the Muscovites with every token of admiration and respect.
But, if the spectators had followed the first half of the program with interest, how impatiently they looked forward to the second! Nothing else was spoken of, the whole length of the entr'acte.
It lasted for ten minutes,—ample time to take a mouthful of fresh air out-of-doors,—then the crowd flowed in again, and not a vacant seat was left.
Ortik and Kirschef had returned, a full hour since, with a half dozen supers, who—the reader has guessed—were, of course, the former companions they had met in the Ural pass.
Mr. Cascabel made a careful survey of his new force.
“Good heads!” he remarked. “Good faces! Well built frames! Too candid a look, perhaps, for highwaymen! Well, with wigs à la hedgehog style and beards to match, I'll make something of them!”
And as he did not come forward till the very end of the piece, he had all the time necessary to do up his recruits, rig them up, dress their hair,—in a word, turn them out as presentable brigands.
And now, Clovy gave the three knocks.
At this moment, in a properly fitted theater, the curtain rises as the last note of the orchestra dies away. If it did not rise this time, it is because it is in the nature of circus rings not to have a curtain, even when they are transformed into stages.
At the same time, let it not be imagined that there were no “properties,” at least in appearance. On the left, a large cupboard, with a cross painted on its door, represented the church, or if you like the chapel, the steeple of which was naturally somewhere behind the scenery! In the center lay the village green, portrayed to life by the sandy ring! To the right, a few shrubs in wooden boxes, skilfully displayed, gave a sufficient idea of the whereabouts of the Black Forest.
The piece opened amid the deepest silence. How pretty Napoleona looked, with her little striped skirt, slightly aged, her “love of a hat” laid just like a flower on her fair head of hair, and above all, her eye so innocent and soft. The first lover, Sander, in a tight-fitting orange-colored vest, considerably faded in the creases of the sleeves, told her his tale of love with such affectionate looks that no spoken language could have been more eloquent.
But, how to describe, in a fitting manner, the apparition of Clovy, with his absurd wig of fiery-red hair, stalking in, and pointing his legs like stilts, first one here and then the other there; his brainless though pretentious look; his nose foredoomed to carry goggles; and the grimacing ape and the loquacious parrot that followed in his wake!
And now comes Cornelia, a woman who will make a formidable mother-in-law! She pitilessly dismisses Sander, and yet it is easy to feel that under her faded costume there throbs a heart worthy of a matron of the olden days.
Great success for John, when he appears dressed as an Italian carabineer. He is very sad, poor fellow. He looks as if his thoughts were bent on other things beside his part. How much he would prefer to play Sander's, with Kayette for his lady-love, and to have nothing more to do than lead lier to the altar. And what a waste of time all this was, when they had so few hours to be together now!
However, so powerful was the dramatic situation, that it carried away the actor. How could it be otherwise, when we think on it! A brother returning from the wars, dressed as a carabineer, and taking the defense of his sister against the haughty prejudices of a mother and the ludicrous aspirations of a fool!
Superbly grand the scene between John and Clovy. The latter trembles with terror, and to such an extent that his teeth are heard to chatter, and his nose grows visibly longer and longer, until it suggests the idea of the point of a sword, that would have entered by the back of his head and would make its way out in the middle of his face.
Just then, cries, loud and repeated, are heard behind the scenes. Young Sander, carried away by his bravery, or perhaps bent on suicide,—for life is now a burden for him,—plunges into the thick of the forest of stage shrubs. The wild echoes of a violent struggle reach the audience, then the report of a gun.
And Fracassar, the leader of the brigands, bounds upon the scene. He is truly terrific, with his pink lights almost turned white, and his black beard well-nigh grown red. His fiendish gang follow in his footsteps. In their midst are Ortik and Kirschef, whom no one could know under their wigs and make-up. Cornelia is seized by the terrible chief. Sander rushes to defend her as usual,—and here it seems as though the customary dénouement will be spoilt on this occasion, for the situation has assumed a different aspect.
Hitherto, when Mr. Cascabel represented the whole band,—single-handed,—John, Sander, their mother, their sister, and Clovy himself, were in a position to keep him in check, waiting for the police, who were “pointed to” as coming in the distance behind the “properties.” But, here was Fracassar, supported by eight real, flesh and bone, visible-to-the-naked-eye ruffians, whom it would be very hard to overpower. And there was every reason to ask how the whole thing would end, so as to keep within the limits of naturalness.
Suddenly, a platoon of Cossacks invade the circus ring. Who could have expected so providential an issue!
The truth was, that manager Cascabel had spared no trouble to give his performance the most extraordinary eclat, and the dramatis personae were all there to a man. Policemen or Cossacks were all one, as a matter of course. In the glance of an eye, Ortik, Kirschef, and all their companions are thrown to the ground and firmly pinioned,—this, the more easily, as it was their part to let themselves be captured after a mere show of resistance.
And now a voice is heard above the din:
“Not me, thank you, my brave Cossacks! These fellows, as long as you like; but I am not in that swim,—not I—only for fun!”
Whose voice is that? Why, it is that of Fracassar, or rather Mr. Cascabel, who now stands up, a free man, while his men, duly handcuffed, are in the power of the authorities.
And was this a reality?—It was; and this had been the latest of Cæsar Cascabel's grand ideas. After engaging Ortik and his associates in his troupe, he had communicated with the Perm police and had told them of a splendid haul to make. This explains the opportune appearance of the Cossacks, just as the dénouement of the piece required their presence; the masterly stroke had been a complete success; the whole band of malefactors were wriggling in vain in the net of their captors.
But presently Ortik was on his feet, and pointing Mr. Cascabel to the captain of the Cossacks:
“I denounce that man to you,” he cried. “He has brought back a political convict to Russia! Ah, you have betrayed me, you cursed rope-dancer; well, I betray you in my turn!”
“Betray away, my friend!” quietly replied Cascabel, with a knowing wink.
“And the convict he brought back is a runaway from Iakoutsk fortress; his name is Count Narkine!”
“Quite true, Ortik!”
Cornelia, her children, and Kayette, who have gathered around, stand speechless with terror.
At this moment one of the spectators rises from his seat—it is Count Narkine.
“There he is!” yells Ortik.
“That is so! I am Count Narkine!” answers Mr. Sergius, unmoved.
“Yes, but Count Narkine amnestied and free!” exclaims Mr. Cascabel, with a heroic peal of laughter.
What an effect on the public! The strongest minds might well be unhinged by all this reality mingled with the fiction of the play! Indeed, a portion of the beholders may have gone home with a confused idea that the “Brigands of the Black Forest” had never wound up in any other way.
A few words will suffice to explain.
Since the time when Count Narkine had been picked up by the Cascabels on the Alaskan frontier, thirteen months had elapsed, during which he had had no news from Russia. How could it have reached him among the Yukon Indians or the natives of Liakhov? He was, therefore, unaware that six months ago a ukase of Czar Alexander II had amnestied all the political convicts in the same category as Count Narkine. The prince, his father, had written to him in America that he might now return home in safety; but the count had already left the country and the letter had been returned to the sender. The anxiety of Prince Narkine, when he ceased to hear from his son, can well be imagined. He lost all hope, thought him dead, perhaps, in exile. His health declined and he was in a critical state, when one night Mr. Sergius arrived at the chateau. What untold bliss it was for the prince to see his son again, and announce to him that he was a free man once more!
The count, naturally unwilling to leave his father after a few hours' interview, had sent a letter to Cascabel, telling him that everything was now all right, and that he would not fail to be at the circus for the second part, at least, of the performance.
It was then Mr. Cascabel had conceived the glorious idea that the reader knows, and had taken measures to “net” Ortik and his whole gang.
On hearing the explanation of the final scene, the spectators grew wild with delight. Vociferous hurrahs burst out on all sides, and a storm of indignant curses accompanied the brigands on their way out under the safe escort of their captors.
Mr. Sergius, too, needed to be told the secret of this capture: how Kayette had discovered the hideous plot against him and the Cascabels; how the young woman had risked her life in following the two sailors into the wood on the night of the 6th of July; how she had told all to Mr. Cascabel, and how the latter would not breathe a word of it to Count Narkine or to his own wife.
“A secret from me, Cæsar; a secret?” asked Cornelia, in a would-be reproachful tone.
“The first and the last, wifey!”
She, of course, had forgiven him already.
“You know I did not say it through selfishness. Excuse the word, won't you. Count Narkine?”
“Don't say ‘Count Narkine.’ Let me always be Mr. Sergius for you, my friends, always Mr. Sergius,—and for you too, my child,” he added, clasping Kayette in his arms.