A great deal more might have been said about our Birthday party.
Was not Miss Florence Howe bewitching in the character of
“Silverhair”? Where did Miss F. get so much powdered wig? Does
she keep a maid, on purpose to put up her hair and powder it,
when she plays Silverhair? We know all about it, but we won’t
tell. We know, too, about those three Bears, and especially that
biggest one with a ferocious and hairy expression of
countenance. Think of the three real chairs, real beds, real
bowls of porridge! Think, too, of a real window for Silverhair
to jump out of—what’s all your empty scene-painting to that? If
we had wanted a real waterfall for our piece, our Papa would
have had one for us—that’s his way of doing things. Every one
knows those Bears were real—they could have growled a great deal
louder, only they did not want to frighten the company; and when
the performance was over, they put on their coats so politely,
and went back to their menagerie.
We were so fortunate as to secure Mr. William Story, the artist, and his
wife, for the title rôles of King Valoroso and his queen in “The Rose
and the Ring.” According to tradition their daughter Edith was one of
the children for whom Thackeray wrote the story. Certain it is that the
portraits of the royal pair, drawn by the author himself, look a good
deal like Mr. and Mrs. Story, due allowance being made for caricature.
Hence they were able to reproduce Thackeray’s royal couple with
exactitude. Mrs. Story wore a very beautiful amethyst necklace belonging
to my mother. Mabel Lowell, daughter of the poet, and I took the parts
of the royal children, Angelica and Rosalba.
As for the warming-pan, dear Mrs. George Russell, wife of my father’s
chum, lent hers for the affair. It had been a part of her housekeeping
outfit, but she said to my mother, “You may keep it, as I never use it
now.” It is still in my possession, a pleasant reminder of my first
appearance upon any stage.
We saw the Storys quite often at this time. One evening, when mince pie
was set upon the table, my father, who was obliged to be extremely
careful about his diet, remarked:
“Well, we might as well all die together.”
To which Mr. Story at once replied, “Yes, and all dye the same color.”
Puns were not then frowned upon so severely as they are now. Thackeray
was in Boston during this period and the Storys invited us to a
children’s party at which the great man was present. I remember him only
as a large person in black, with thick gray hair, who did his best, I do
not doubt, to amuse the children.
Mr. William Story gave us an impersonation of a dwarf which was truly
delightful. To our immeasurable surprise, we saw this gentleman,
suddenly shrunk to less than half his natural height. Arrayed in a
Turkish fez and white garments, with slippers and stockings to match, he
danced very high, if not disposedly, on a table, with many rollings of
the eyes and gestures of the arms. The explanation of the trick was that
his hands formed the feet of the dwarf, while the arms and hands were
furnished by another person kneeling behind him.
To invent a language is a common device of children, who usually content
themselves with simply adding a termination or a prefix to each word.
Our attempt was more ambitious as we boldly undertook to construct an
entire language. It is needless to say that we did not get very far with
our venture. I fancy that we chose Patagonian because the account in our
geography of the inhabitants of that country—large men, imperfectly
clothed and very slightly civilized—appealed to our infant imaginations.
Also, the land being so remote, it was very unlikely that any returned
travelers would suddenly speak to us in true Patagonian accents and so
put us to the blush.
There were to be many irregular verbs, the wise Julia counseled, since
that would render our task easier! Of the surviving fragments of our
language, it suffices to give two.
“Bis von snout?” (“Are you well?”)
“Brunk tu touchy snout.” (“I am very well.”)
It will be observed that these are reminiscent of more than one modern
tongue.
The scope of our language was hardly great enough to account for its
fame (it has been duly chronicled in at least one published volume).
Doubtless it was the boldness of the venture and the happy choice of a
name which immortalized the Howe Patagonian tongue.
If Julia shone in the family on account of her literary productions,
Flossy achieved a certain distinction as a musical composer. It must be
confessed that she produced only one song, consisting of a single verse
with repetitionary chorus. But did she not write out the score, words
and music _with accompaniment_, treble and bass clef being duly marked?
“Play on the shovel” lies before me now, preserved by fond parents
during many years.
The early interest of Florence in financial affairs was shown by the
arrangements for our concert. From the hothouse at “Green Peace” we
procured—without charge—flowers which we arranged in tiny bouquets.
These were sold to the audience for a cent apiece, our friends
obligingly throwing them back at us, in token of admiration for our
performance. By this simple yet remunerative scheme we secured both the
flowers and the price thereof. Some of them were, I hope, given to Miss
Ellen Burns, our prima donna, on the occasion of her benefit. I had
often seen, on theatrical bill-boards, the phrase, “Benefit of
So-and-so.” This seemed to me a much more alluring and attractive word
than “Concert.” When I was informed that this name implied the giving of
the profits to the beneficiary, I refused, with the horrid obstinacy of
childhood, to accept any such paltry explanation.
“Play on the shovel,” which was much liked, was included in the program.
Our audience consisted principally of the teachers and officers of the
Institution. They nobly paid one or more pins for their seats, according
to desirability.
From all this it will be judged that our musical education was already
well begun, Mr. Otto Dresel being our master.
I will not say that we regarded him as belonging to the same class as
the family dentist, because the latter we considered a species of ogre.
But we duly feared and respected Mr. Dresel as a person who might at any
time stamp his feet or say, with energy, “How stupid!” as we no doubt
were.
It now seems to me that he was wonderfully patient with us and our
little stumbling fingers. For, like most artists, he was a man of highly
nervous organization. He was not only one of Boston’s leading pianists,
but a composer of merit.
Our kind friends, the Bensons and Schlessingers, allowed us to take our
music lessons at their house in Boston, in these early days, thus saving
our master the long trip to South Boston.
A most pleasant eleven-o’clock lunch was provided for the little people,
to our great joy.
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