Flashman And The Tiger

It was pure chance I was at that theatre at all—or even in London, for it was still winter, when Elspeth and I prefer to snug up cosily at our Leicestershire place, where the drink and vittles are of the best, and we can snarl at each other comfortably. But she had insisted we go up to Town for the Macmillan christening'—being Scotch herself, and fancying that she occupied a place in Society, she was forever burdening other unfortunate Caledonians with her presence—and I didn’t mind too much; I’d heard rumours from friends in the know that there was to be a monstrous increase in death duties at the next Budget, and being in my seventy-second year by then, with a fat sum in the bank, it seemed sensible to squander as much among the fleshpots as we indecently could.

So to Town we went, and in between brandy-soaked evenings with old comrades and hopeful prowlings after a new generation of loose women, I allowed myself to be talked into escorting my grand-daughter to the theatre to see Mrs Campbell drivelling abominably in Mrs Tanqueray. I’d much have preferred going to watch Nala Damajanti and her Amazing Snakes at the Palace, or the corsetted fat bottoms and tits in George Edwardes' show, but being a besotted grandparent I’d have let my little Selina coax me into watching three hours of steady rain and been happy. She was a little darling, and the apple of my bleary old eye—how my son, as unpromising a prig as ever saddened a father’s heart by becoming a parson, could have sired such an angel, I’ve never been able to fathom. I call her little, but in fact she was one of your tall, stately beauties, with raven black hair (like mine, once), eyes flashing dark as a gypsy’s, and a face that could change from classical perfection to sparkling mischief in an instant. She was just nineteen then, a lovely, lively innocent, and I watched her like a jealous hawk where the Society boys were concerned—I know what I was like when I was their age, and I wasn’t having the dirty young rips lechering round my little Selly. Besides, she was officially affianced to young Randall Stanger, a titled muttonhead in the Guards, and their forthcoming nuptials would be quite an event of the Season.

She was chattering happily as we came out after the third act, and caught the eye of the bold Oscar, who was holding forth languidly to a group of his fritillaries near the bar entrance, looking as usual like an overfed trout in a toupé. He and I had known each other more or less since the days when I was being pursued by Lily Langtry; as I went past now, trying not to notice him, with Selly on my arm, he nudged one of his myrmidons and said sotto voce:

"Strange, how desire doth so outrun performance," and then, pretending just to notice me: "Why, General Flashman! In London out of season? That can only mean that all the hares and foxes have left the country, or the French are invading it." His group of harumphrodites all tittered at this, and the fat posturer waved his gold-tipped cigarette, well pleased with his insolence. I looked at him.

"Quoting Shakespeare, Oscar?" says I. "Pity you don’t crib him more often. Get better notices, what? My dear," says I to Selly, "this is Mr Wilde, who writes comic material for the halls. My grand-daughter, Miss Selina Flashman."

"You grandchild? Incredible!" drawls he. "But delightful—beautiful! Why, if dear Bosie were here, instead of indulging him-self so selfishly in Italy, he would write verses to you, ma’mselle—verses like purple blooms in a caliph’s garden. I would write them myself, but my new play, you know …" He pressed her hand, with his fruity smile. "And I see, dear Miss Flashman, that you are discriminating as well as beautiful—you have had the excellent taste to choose as your grandfather one of the few civilised generals in the British Army." He waited for her look of surprise. "He never won a battle, you know. May I present Mr Beasley[10] … Mr Bruce … Mr Gaston … Colonel Moran …"

He turned her with a flutter of his plump hand to his toadies, and gave me his drooping insolent stare. "Do you know, my dear Sir Harry, I believe I have a splendid idea. I might—" he poked his gilded cigarette at me "—I might confer on you an immortality quite beyond your desserts. I might put you in a play—assuming the Lord Chamberlain had no objection. Think what a stir that would create at the Horse Guards." He gave a mincing little titter.

"You do, Father Oscar,' says I, "and I’ll certainly confer immortality on you."

"How so?" cries he, affecting astonishment.

"I’ll kick you straight in the tinklers—assuming you’ve got any," says I. "Think what a stir that’ll create in the Café Royal." I turned to Selly, who was out of earshot, listening to what one of Oscar’s creatures was saying. "Come, my dear. Our carriage will be—" And that was the moment when I found myself looking at Moran.