I mentioned these feelings of mine to Harris, and he said he had them
worse than that. He said he not only felt he wanted to kill the man who
caused the board to be put up, but that he should like to slaughter the
whole of his family and all his friends and relations, and then burn down
his house. This seemed to me to be going too far, and I said so to
Harris; but he answered:
"Not a bit of it. Serve `em all jolly well right, and I'd go and sing
comic songs on the ruins."
I was vexed to hear Harris go on in this blood-thirsty strain. We never
ought to allow our instincts of justice to degenerate into mere
vindictiveness. It was a long while before I could get Harris to take a
more Christian view of the subject, but I succeeded at last, and he
promised me that he would spare the friends and relations at all events,
and would not sing comic songs on the ruins.
You have never heard Harris sing a comic song, or you would understand
the service I had rendered to mankind. It is one of Harris's fixed ideas
that he CAN sing a comic song; the fixed idea, on the contrary, among
those of Harris's friends who have heard him try, is that he CAN'T and
never will be able to, and that he ought not to be allowed to try.
When Harris is at a party, and is asked to sing, he replies: "Well, I can
only sing a COMIC song, you know;" and he says it in a tone that implies
that his singing of THAT, however, is a thing that you ought to hear
once, and then die.
"Oh, that IS nice," says the hostess. "Do sing one, Mr. Harris;" and
Harris gets up, and makes for the piano, with the beaming cheeriness of a
generous-minded man who is just about to give somebody something.
"Now, silence, please, everybody" says the hostess, turning round; "Mr.
Harris is going to sing a comic song!"
"Oh, how jolly!" they murmur; and they hurry in from the conservatory,
and come up from the stairs, and go and fetch each other from all over
the house, and crowd into the drawing-room, and sit round, all smirking
in anticipation.
Then Harris begins.
Well, you don't look for much of a voice in a comic song. You don't
expect correct phrasing or vocalization. You don't mind if a man does
find out, when in the middle of a note, that he is too high, and comes
down with a jerk. You don't bother about time. You don't mind a man
being two bars in front of the accompaniment, and easing up in the middle
of a line to argue it out with the pianist, and then starting the verse
afresh. But you do expect the words.
You don't expect a man to never remember more than the first three lines
of the first verse, and to keep on repeating these until it is time to
begin the chorus. You don't expect a man to break off in the middle of a
line, and snigger, and say, it's very funny, but he's blest if he can
think of the rest of it, and then try and make it up for himself, and,
afterwards, suddenly recollect it, when he has got to an entirely
different part of the song, and break off, without a word of warning, to
go back and let you have it then and there. You don't - well, I will
just give you an idea of Harris's comic singing, and then you can judge
of it for yourself.
HARRIS (STANDING UP IN FRONT OF PIANO AND ADDRESSING THE EXPECTANT MOB):
"I'm afraid it's a very old thing, you know. I expect you all know it,
you know. But it's the only thing I know. It's the Judge's song out of
PINAFORE - no, I don't mean PINAFORE - I mean - you know what I mean -
the other thing, you know. You must all join in the chorus, you know."
[Murmurs of delight and anxiety to join in the chorus. Brilliant
performance of prelude to the Judge's song in "Trial by Jury" by nervous
Pianist. Moment arrives for Harris to join in. Harris takes no notice
of it. Nervous pianist commences prelude over again, and Harris,
commencing singing at the same time, dashes off the first two lines of
the First Lord's song out of "Pinafore." Nervous pianist tries to push
on with prelude, gives it up, and tries to follow Harris with
accompaniment to Judge's song out "Trial by Jury," finds that doesn't
answer, and tries to recollect what he is doing, and where he is, feels
his mind giving way, and stops short.]
HARRIS (WITH KINDLY ENCOURAGEMENT): "It's all right. You're doing it
very well, indeed - go on."
NERVOUS PIANIST: "I'm afraid there's a mistake somewhere. What are you
singing?"
HARRIS (PROMPTLY): "Why the Judge's song out of Trial by Jury. Don't you
know it?"
SOME FRIEND OF HARRIS'S (FROM THE BACK OF THE ROOM): "No, you're not, you
chuckle-head, you're singing the Admiral's song from PINAFORE."
[Long argument between Harris and Harris's friend as to what Harris is
really singing. Friend finally suggests that it doesn't matter what
Harris is singing so long as Harris gets on and sings it, and Harris,
with an evident sense of injustice rankling inside him, requests pianist
to begin again. Pianist, thereupon, starts prelude to the Admiral's
song, and Harris, seizing what he considers to be a favourable opening in
the music, begins.]
HARRIS:
" `When I was young and called to the Bar.' "
[GENERAL ROAR OF LAUGHTER, TAKEN BY HARRIS AS A COMPLIMENT. PIANIST,
THINKING OF HIS WIFE AND FAMILY, GIVES UP THE UNEQUAL CONTEST AND
RETIRES; HIS PLACE BEING TAKEN BY A STRONGER-NERVED MAN.
THE NEW PIANIST (CHEERILY): "Now then, old man, you start off, and I'll
follow. We won't bother about any prelude."
HARRIS (UPON WHOM THE EXPLANATION OF MATTERS HAS SLOWLY DAWNED -
LAUGHING): "By Jove! I beg your pardon. Of course - I've been mixing up
the two songs. It was Jenkins confused me, you know. Now then.
[SINGING; HIS VOICE APPEARING TO COME FROM THE CELLAR, AND SUGGESTING THE
FIRST LOW WARNINGS OF AN APPROACHING EARTHQUAKE.
" `When I was young I served a term
As office-boy to an attorney's firm.'
(Aside to pianist): "It is too low, old man; we'll have that over again,
if you don't mind."
[SINGS FIRST TWO LINES OVER AGAIN, IN A HIGH FALSETTO THIS TIME. GREAT
SURPRISE ON THE PART OF THE AUDIENCE. NERVOUS OLD LADY NEAR THE FIRE
BEGINS TO CRY, AND HAS TO BE LED OUT.]
HARRIS (continuing):
"I swept the windows and I swept the door,
And I - `
No - no, I cleaned the windows of the big front door. And I polished up
the floor - no, dash it - I beg your pardon - funny thing, I can't think
of that line. And I - and I - Oh, well, we'll get on to the chorus, and
chance it (SINGS):
`And I diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-de,
Till now I am the ruler of the Queen's navee.'
Now then, chorus - it is the last two lines repeated, you know.
GENERAL CHORUS:
"And he diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-dee'd,
Till now he is the ruler of the Queen's navee."
And Harris never sees what an ass he is making of himself, and how he is
annoying a lot of people who never did him any harm. He honestly
imagines that he has given them a treat, and says he will sing another
comic song after supper.
Speaking of comic songs and parties, reminds me of a rather curious
incident at which I once assisted; which, as it throws much light upon
the inner mental working of human nature in general, ought, I think, to
be recorded in these pages.
We were a fashionable and highly cultured party. We had on our best
clothes, and we talked pretty, and were very happy - all except two young
fellows, students, just returned from Germany, commonplace young men, who
seemed restless and uncomfortable, as if they found the proceedings slow.
The truth was, we were too clever for them. Our brilliant but polished
conversation, and our high-class tastes, were beyond them. They were out
of place, among us. They never ought to have been there at all.
Everybody agreed upon that, later on.
We played MORCEAUX from the old German masters. We discussed philosophy
and ethics. We flirted with graceful dignity. We were even humorous -
in a high-class way.
Somebody recited a French poem after supper, and we said it was
beautiful; and then a lady sang a sentimental ballad in Spanish, and it
made one or two of us weep - it was so pathetic.
And then those two young men got up, and asked us if we had ever heard
Herr Slossenn Boschen (who had just arrived, and was then down in the
supper-room) sing his great German comic song.
None of us had heard it, that we could remember.
The young men said it was the funniest song that had ever been written,
and that, if we liked, they would get Herr Slossenn Boschen, whom they
knew very well, to sing it. They said it was so funny that, when Herr
Slossenn Boschen had sung it once before the German Emperor, he (the
German Emperor) had had to be carried off to bed.
They said nobody could sing it like Herr Slossenn Boschen; he was so
intensely serious all through it that you might fancy he was reciting a
tragedy, and that, of course, made it all the funnier. They said he
never once suggested by his tone or manner that he was singing anything
funny - that would spoil it. It was his air of seriousness, almost of
pathos, that made it so irresistibly amusing.
We said we yearned to hear it, that we wanted a good laugh; and they went
downstairs, and fetched Herr Slossenn Boschen.
He appeared to be quite pleased to sing it, for he came up at once, and
sat down to the piano without another word.
"Oh, it will amuse you. You will laugh," whispered the two young men, as
they passed through the room, and took up an unobtrusive position behind
the Professor's back.
Herr Slossenn Boschen accompanied himself. The prelude did not suggest a
comic song exactly. It was a weird, soulful air.
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