Elbow-Room Part 22

"You will probably be surprised to learn that your critic is here referring to a very beautiful study of a Christian martyr who has been thrown among the wild beasts of the arena, and who is engaged in being eaten by a lion. The animal is not a yellow dog; that human being has not been in swimming; and the reason that he is smaller than the lion is that I had to make him so in order to get his head into the lion's mouth. Would you have me represent the lion as large as an elephant?

Would you have me paste a label on the Christian martyr to inform the public that 'This is not a boy who has been treading water with his hands tied'? Now, look at the matter calmly. Is the _Patriot_ encouraging art when it goes on in this manner? Blame me if I think it is."

"It certainly doesn't seem so."

"Well, then, what do you say to this? What do you think of a critic who remarks,

"'But the most extraordinary thing in the picture is the group in the foreground. An old lady with an iron coal-scuttle on her head is handing some black pills to a ballet-dancer dressed in pink tights, while another woman in a badly-fitting chemise stands by them brus.h.i.+ng off the flies with the branch of a tree, with a canary-bird resting upon her shoulder and trying to sing at some small boys who are seen in the other corner of the field. What this means we haven't the remotest idea; but we do know that the ballet-dancers' legs have the knee-pans at the back of the joint, and that the canary-bird looks more as if he wanted to eat the coal-scuttle than as if he desired to sing.'

"This is too bad. Do you know what that beautiful group really represents? That old lady, as your idiot calls her, is Minerva, the G.o.ddess of War, handing cannon b.a.l.l.s to the G.o.ddess of Love as a token there shall be no more war. And the figure in what he considers the chemise is the genius of Liberty holding out an olive branch with one hand, while upon her shoulder rests an American eagle screaming defiance at the enemies of his country, who are seen fleeing in the distance. Canary bird! small boys! ballet-girl! The man is crazy, sir; stark, staring mad. And now I want you to write up an explanation for me. This kind of thing exposes me to derision. I can't stand it, and, by George! I won't! I'll sue you for libel."

Then the major promised to make amends, and Mr. Brewer withdrew in a calmer mood.

CHAPTER XX.

_HIGH ART_.

An itinerant theatrical company gave two or three performances in Millburg last winter, and in a very creditable fas.h.i.+on, too. One of the plays produced was Shakespere's "King John," with the "eminent tragedian Mr. Hammer" in the character of the _King_. It is likely that but for an unfortunate misunderstanding the entertainment would have been wholly delightful. There is a good deal of flouris.h.i.+ng of trumpets in the drama, and the manager, not having a trumpeter of his own, engaged a German musician named Schenck to supply the music.

Schenck doesn't understand the English language very well, and the manager put him behind the scenes on the left of the stage, while the manager stood in the wing at the right of the stage. Then Schenck was instructed to toot his trumpet when the manager signaled with his hand. Everything went along smoothly enough until _King John_ (Mr.

Hammer) came to the pa.s.sage, "Ah, me! this tyrant fever burns me up!"

Just as _King John_ was about to utter this the manager brushed a fly off of his nose, and Schenck, mistaking the movement for the appointed signal, blew out a frightful blare upon his bugle. The _King_ was furious and the manager made wild gestures for Schenck to stop, but that estimable German musician imagined that the manager wanted him to play louder, and every time a fresh motion was made Schenck emitted a more terrific blast The result was something like the following:

_King John_. "Ah, me! this tyrant--"

_Schenck_ (with his cheeks distended and his eyes beaming through his spectacles). "Ta-tarty; ta-ta-tarty, rat-tat tarty-tarty-tarty, ta-ta-ta, tanarty-arty, te-tarty."

_King John_. "Fever burns--"

_Schenck_. "Rat-tat-tarty, p.o.o.pen-arty, oopen-arty, ta-tarty-arty-oopen-arty; ta-ta; ta-ta-ta-tarty p.o.o.pen-arty, p.o.o.pen a-a-a-arty-arty."

_King John_. "Ah, me! this--"

_Schenck_ (ejecting a hurricane from his lungs).

"Hoopen-oopen-oopen-arty, ta-tarty; tat-tat-ta-tarty-ti-ta-tarty; p.o.o.pen-ta-p.o.o.pen-ta-p.o.o.pen-ta-a-a-a-tarty-whoop ta-ta."

_King John_ (quickly). "Tyrant fever burns me up."

_Schenck_ (with perspiration standing out on his forehead).

"To-ta ta-ta. Ta-ta ta-ta tatten-atten-atten arty te-tarty p.o.o.pen oopen-oo-oo-oo-oo-oopen te-tarty ta-ta-ar-ar-ar-te tarty-to-ta-a-a-a-_a_-A-+A+-+_A!_+"

_King John_ (to the audience). "Ladies and gentlemen--"

_Schenck_. "Ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta, p.o.o.pen-oopen, p.o.o.pen-oopen, te-ta, tarty oo-hoo oo-hoo-te tarty arty, appen-arty."

_King John_. "There is a German idiot behind the scenes here who is--"

_Schenck_. "Whoopen-arty te-tarty-arty-arty-ta-ta-a-a-a tat-tarty."

_King John_. "Blowing infamously upon a horn, and--"

_Schenck_. "p.o.o.pen-arty."

_King John_. "If you will excuse me--"

_Schenck_. "Pen-arty-arty."

_King John_. "I will go behind the scenes and check him in his wild career."

_Schenck_. "p.o.o.pen-arty ta-tarty-arty p.o.o.pen-a-a-a-arty tat-tat-ta-tarty."

Then _King John_ disappeared and a scuffle was heard, with some violent expressions in the German language. Ten minutes later a gentleman from the Fatherland might have been seen standing on the pavement in front of the theatre with a bugle under his arm and a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, wondering what on earth was the matter. In the mean time the _King_ had returned to the stage, and the performance concluded without any music. After this the manager will employ home talent when he wants airs on the bugle.

I have been studying the horn to some extent myself. Nothing is more delightful than to have sweet music at home in the evenings. It lightens the burdens of care, it soothes the ruffled feelings, it exercises a refining influence upon the children, it calms the pa.s.sions and elevates the soul. A few months ago I thought that it might please my family if I learned to play upon the French horn. It is a beautiful instrument, and after hearing a man perform on it at a concert I resolved to have one. I bought a splendid one in the city, and concluded not to mention the fact to any one until I had learned to play a tune. Then I thought I would serenade Mrs. A. some evening and surprise her. Accordingly, I determined to practice in the garret.

When I first tried the horn I expected to blow only a few gentle notes until I learned how to handle it; but when I put the mouth-piece to my lips, no sound was evoked. Then I blew harder. Still the horn remained silent. Then I drew a full breath and sent a whirlwind tearing through the horn; but no music came. I blew at it for half an hour, and then I ran a wire through the instrument to ascertain if anything blocked it up. It was clear. Then I blew softly and fiercely, quickly and slowly.

I opened all the stops. I puffed and strained and worked until I feared an attack of apoplexy. Then I gave it up and went down stairs; and Mrs. A. asked me what made me look so red in the face. For four days I labored with that horn, and got my lips so puckered up and swollen that I went about looking as if I was perpetually trying to whistle. Finally, I took the instrument back to the store and told the man that the horn was defective. What I wanted was a horn with insides to it; this one had no more music to it than a terra-cotta drainpipe.

The man took it in his hand, put it to his lips and played "Sweet Spirit, Hear my Prayer," as easily as if he were singing. He said that what I needed was to fix my mouth properly, and he showed me how.

After working for three more afternoons in the garret the horn at last made a sound. But it was not a cheering noise; it reminded me forcibly of the groans uttered by b.u.t.terwick's horse when it was dying last November. The harder I blew, the more mournful became the noise, and that was the only note I could get. When I went down to supper, Mrs.

A. asked me if I heard that awful groaning. She said she guessed it came from Twiddler's cow, for she heard Mrs. Twiddler say yesterday that the cow was sick.

For four weeks I could get nothing out of that horn but blood-curdling groans; and, meantime, the people over the way moved to another house because our neighborhood was haunted, and three of our hired girls resigned successively for the same reason.

Finally, a man whom I consulted told me that "No One to Love" was an easy tune for beginners; and I made an effort to learn it.

After three weeks of arduous practice, during which Mrs. A. several times suggested that it was brutal that Twiddler didn't kill that suffering cow and put it out of its misery, I conquered the first three notes; but there I stuck. I could play "No One to--" and that was all. I performed "No One to--" over eight thousand times; and as it seemed unlikely that I would ever learn the whole tune, I determined to try the effect of part of it on Mrs. A. About ten o'clock one night I crept out to the front of the house and struck up. First, "No One to--" about fifteen or twenty times, then a few of those groans, then more of the tune, and so forth. Then b.u.t.terwick set his dog on me, and I suddenly went into the house. Mrs. A. had the children in the back room, and she was standing behind the door with my revolver in her hand. When I entered, she exclaimed,

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come home! Somebody's been murdering a man in our yard. He uttered the most awful shrieks and cries I ever heard. I was dreadfully afraid the murderers would come into the house. It's perfectly fearful, isn't it?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: A SCARED FAMILY]

Then I took the revolver away from her--it was not loaded, and she had no idea that it would have to be c.o.c.ked--and went to bed without mentioning the horn. I thought perhaps it would be better not to.

I sold it the next day; and now if I want music I shall buy a good hand-organ. I know I can play on that.

As music and sculpture are the first of the arts, I may properly refer in this chapter to some facts relative to the condition of the latter in the community in which I live. Some time ago there was an auction out at the place of Mr. Jackson, and a very handsome marble statue of William Penn was knocked down to Mr. Whitaker. He had the statue carted over to the marble-yard, where he sought an interview with Mr. Mix, the owner. He told Mix that he wanted that statue "fixed up somehow so that 'twould represent one of the heathen G.o.ds." He had an idea that Mix might chip the clothes off of Penn and put a lyre in his hand, "so that he might pa.s.s muster as Apollo or Hercules."

But Mix said he thought the difficulty would be in wrestling with William's hat. It was a marble hat, with a rim almost big enough for a race-course; and Mix said that although he didn't profess to know much about heathen mythology as a general thing, still it struck him that Hercules in a broad-brimmed hat would attract attention by his singularity, and might be open to criticism.

Mr. Whitaker said that what he really wanted with that statue, when he bought it, was to turn it into Venus, and he thought perhaps the hat might be chiseled up into some kind of a halo around her head.

But Mix said that he didn't exactly see how he could do that when the rim was so curly at the sides. A halo that was curly was just no halo at all. But, anyway, how was he going to manage about Penn's waistcoat? It reached almost to his knees, and to attempt to get out a bare-legged Venus with a halo on her head and four cubic feet of waistcoat around her middle would ruin his business. It would make the whole human race smile.