“Wouldn’t you think,” she says, “we’d have something from last year,
anyway? There isn’t anything as dead as an old dance record. We used to
have parties and break the old ones, I remember. And I made up my mind
not to buy any more except Red Seals, because the other ones were out of
date in a week. I believe that for a while I spent my whole allowance on
records, every month.”
“Yes, it’s funny how fast they change,” you say, balancing a
particularly warped disk on your forefinger. “Remember when jazz first
came in—all horns and those sweet-potato things? They were awfully
loud. Dad said the world was going crazy. And then the toddle.”
“Oh yes!” she cries, standing on one foot and bobbing up and down. “It
was hard to break the habit when it went out. What are you going to
play?”
You wind up the handle, and it squeaks in protest. “Never mind. See if
you recognize it.”
“Oh, Venetian Moon! That reminds me of something. Do songs mean things
to you? Do certain tunes bring back certain thoughts and feelings to
you?”
“Sure, whenever I hear Poor Butterfly I think of Lorna Doone. I can’t
trace the connection exactly, but I always do.”
“It must have been played somewhere when you read it,” she says. The
record is finished, and the needle scrapes with a harsh sound. “It’s all
rusty,” she adds. “I’m going to have it fixed up. I’m tired of the radio
anyway. I’d rather choose what I want to hear.”
“Here’s Tea for Two. That was a pretty good one.”
“Yes,” she sighs. “I was kissed for the first time when that was being
played. What a fearfully old record!”
Wind up the machine again and put it on, then hold out your arms. “Let’s
dance.”
She glides to you. After the first few bars kiss her lightly. She stops,
pushing you away. “What’s the idea?” she demands.
“I was just trying to revive old memories,” you explain. “Come on and
finish; I’ll be good. Say, you’re a peach of a dancer.”
“Thanks,” she says, going back to the Victrola. “Whose old memories were
you reviving then?”
“Oh, don’t be funny,” you grumble. “Here’s a real old-timer.” Hold it up
for her to read; it is the Merry Widow Waltz.
“Mother used to dance to that,” she says. “Let’s try to dance in the way
they did in the play last year.” But you can not imitate the graceful
swooping circles of the Viennese. “It’s not so good,” she decides. “What
else is here?”
“Here’s something called the Livery Stable Blues. Do you know it? I
don’t.” You put it on, and a dreadful yowling fills the air. She covers
her ears.
“Stop it!” she cries. “Take it off! Imagine dancing to that.”
“Oh gosh! Here’s Peggy O’Neill! That has plenty of memories for me, all
right. She turned me down the same evening.”
“I’m so sorry, but you were too young to be getting married anyway. Look
at this? I wonder why no one ever broke it. I think they played it at my
first Prom. It’s queer, but the only people I remember at parties are
perfectly irrelevant ones; people I just have one dance with, or
something. This is having a very bad effect on me. I feel so old and
regretful.” She sighs and looks in the mirror hanging on the wall.
“Well then,” say, winding up the machine again, “Listen to this and have
a real good cry. You weren’t born yet when they were playing it.” Start
to sing with the music. “Oh, tell me, pretty maiden, are there any more
at home like you? There are a few—kind sir——”
“I never even heard it,” she says. “It’s quite catchy, too. They had a
lot of good songs, in their way. What are you doing? You’ll get all
dusty.”
You are struggling with a large pile of Red Seals. “Sometimes they have
a waltz or something that you can use in these highbrow things,”
shuffling them. “Here’s something; Valse Bluette. It might be good;
let’s try to dance to it.”
But the rhythm is too varied for you. You struggle for a while, and then
she breaks away, laughing and breathless.
“No good,” she says. “But here’s one of my favorites. Do you mind? Wait
a minute.”
John McCormick’s voice rings out richly, marred only by a periodic
scratch.
“When-n-n the dawwwn
Flames innnn the skyeeeeee
I—uh—love—uh youuuuuu:
Whennnn the birrrrdlings wake and cryeeeee
I—uh—love—uh yououuuuooooo.”
“Isn’t that lovely?” she says, raptly. “I always loved that song. Music
always GETS me somehow. Let’s play it again.”
“Wait a minute,” you say. “I have something else.” The sweet strains of
Liebestraum make the air sticky, and her ready laughter is stilled in
reverence.
Say, “I don’t know if you’ll like this one or not. It’s a long one.”
She sits down on the divan. “Sure. Go ahead. What is it? I don’t
remember any of them.”
“L’Apres-Midi D’Un Faun.”
“What?”
“L’Apres-Midi D’Un Faun. It’s French. Listen!”
She shakes her head briskly as you turn the record over, and starts to
talk. Motion to her to be quiet, and play the second part. She speaks
drowsily.
“It’s very queer. It’s made me sleepy. Are you playing it again? For
heaven’s sake, why?”
“Well,” you explain, “it always sounds better the second time.”
Listen to it again, with your hands clasped together. Lean over to her.
“It’s a funny thing about that music. It gets me.” Kiss her.
“I know,” she says. “If I listened to it very long I wouldn’t be
responsible.”
“Responsible for what?”
“Oh, just responsible.” Kiss her again. She stands up. “Let’s play
something loud and get waked up.”
“This ought to be loud. The Fire Song.”
“No,” she decides, after a few bars, “it isn’t loud enough. I can’t wake
up. Play the Hymn to the Sun.”
“It scratches,” you object. “Here’s one something like it.”
Play the Song of India. She sighs and relaxes.
“I love that,” she says, dreamily. “What’s that you’re going to play?”
Without answering her, put on L’Apres-Midi D’Un Faun.