The Cabaret was in a large cellar at the end of Heddon Street, and the narrow way was blocked up with taxis as our own cab sped round the corner from Regent Street. The place was nearly full, and a Frenchman with a little waxed moustache was singing Two Eyes of Grey, with his eyes glued to the ceiling in a stupidly sentimental manner, and I recollect that our first impulse was to turn and flee. One hears such songs, I am told, in Bolton and Oldham, and, I dare say, in the London suburbs, but that Madame Strindberg should come all the way from Sweden and bring a man all the way from France to sing the latest inanity was incredible. But my eye caught some fantastically carved figures that leered and leaned from the great, thick posts supporting the roof. These painted creatures were attractive and promising and futuristic, and:
“At all events, we’ll drink a bottle of champagne before we go,” said I, as a waiter drew us to a table and announced that supper was about to be served. “For champagne always helps,” I added.
And, really, for an hour or two I required a little artificial stimulus in order to survive the dullness of the musical programme.
“Whoever the people are who run this place,” I said to a pale, elderly man who sat opposite to me, “they are extraordinarily stupid. They get Frank Harris to lecture one evening and give us inane music the next. One doesn’t come to a night club to be flapdoodled.”
“Flap——?” he queried.
[280]
]“Flapdoodled. Yes. I mean these people who sing and recite like a Penny Reading. They do these things in Higher Wycombe and Bluzzerby-on-Stream. They should not be done here.”
The pale man did not understand. He coughed behind a very white hand and delicately selected a nut.
. . . . . . . .
And then Madame Strindberg approached our table. She had been pointed out to me half-an-hour previously and I had noted a pale little woman who appeared to examine her guests rather nervously. She looked cold and careworn. She was very silent, and her black clothing and white face struck a sombre note in all the moving light and colour of the large, warm room.
She came to the table and introduced herself to us, sitting down and placing a nervous little hand in mine. I soon discovered she had no conversation, for, try how she might, she could not say anything that mattered in the least. She chattered a little, made a few exclamations, and then sat silent. To me she seemed full of negations, denials. Personality she had, I daresay, but it did not arouse my interest in the least, and after I had paid her a few insincere compliments concerning the Club, I also sat silent. After a while, she was taken away to another table by some friends.