himself next evening at the door of the sumptuous apartment-house where
the boss lived, gave his name to one of the liveried grandees in
attendance, and was shown up to E 4, a gorgeous duplex suite half as
large as a house, and renting for twice as much.
Everything went off splendidly. The boss unbent to a surprising degree,
Mrs. Stockbridge was most cordial, and the daughter proved to be a
fascinator. What was more, Carrington surpassed himself as a social
light. He told several funny stories with considerable éclat; and
inspired by the thrill of the occasion, even thought up one or two
_original_ ones that surprised him as much as they impressed his hosts.
When, later in the evening, he played bridge as the daughter's partner,
he had a rush of hearts and aces to the hand. He made slams big and
little at such a rate that Miss Stockbridge complimented him upon his
skill. Consequently, when, after two victorious rubbers, he bid his
hosts good night and noted from their effusiveness that he had made a
very favorable impression, it was no wonder that he already pictured
himself a member of the firm and the boss's son-in-law.
As the door of the apartment closed behind him, he heaved a sigh of
triumph. He felt like shouting or doing something violent. Tingling with
pride, he strutted down the hallway toward the elevator.
A shining brass fire-nozzle, jutting out provokingly from a coil of
hose, attracted his attention. It looked so like the head of some absurd
animal that he couldn't help poking his finger into its mouth as he went
by. His finger stuck.
Facing the nozzle squarely and taking hold of it with his free left
hand, he pulled more carefully. Still it stuck. The finger was beginning
to swell and turn red. He tugged it harder, with no result.
Concluding that lubrication was necessary, he leaned over and licked it,
acquiring a strong brass taste upon his tongue. Then he pulled hard.
More swelling.
By this time he was in a perspiration of misery. He paused and tried to
think clearly, but his mind, which had scintillated all evening, was
now a blur. His first lucid thought was that he must unscrew the nozzle
from the hose. Why, of course! How simple! But when he tried turning the
coupling of the hose, the nozzle insisted on turning with it, and his
imprisoned finger was averse to revolving.
Lapsing again into rueful speculation, he tried desperately to devise
some means of regaining his liberty. Why not go ring the elevator bell?
No; that was around the bend of the corridor, and his tether probably
would not reach that far; and, besides, it would be awful to have to
explain his plight to a liveried dignitary like the one who had convoyed
him up. And suppose the elevator should arrive full of plutocrats coming
home from the opera, or high-strung women who would shriek when they saw
him with the fire-hose?
No, that could never be risked. He must think of something else. A
little olive-oil would probably do the trick, but how could he get it?
If he had thought of that at first and gone right back and asked for it,
it wouldn't have been so bad; but now, after nearly half an hour, his
hosts were probably in bed. No, it was too late to ring their door-bell
now.
Suddenly an ingenious idea occurred to him: he would turn on the water
and _squirt_ his finger out! Splendid! He reached up and turned the
wheel. It made a mournful creaking sound, but no water came through the
coil of hose. "It must be shut off downstairs," he thought.
Thanks to the incessant sting of his finger and the maddening
exasperation of the predicament he was in, Carrington was nearly
frantic.
"Oh," he exclaimed, "I'll have to disturb them for that oil sooner or
later, so I'd better do it right off."
With that he started for the boss's door, trailing the hose after him.
His heart thumped as he rang the bell. Standing in close to the wall, he
kept the nozzle behind his back, thinking it better to explain before
displaying his appendage.
There was a sound of slippered feet, and, from the opposite direction, a
sound of slipping hose. The door was unlocked, and the remainder of the
canvas-and-rubber coil that had kept back the water unrolled down upon
the floor.
"Who's there?" growled Mr. Stockbridge, arrayed in a bath-robe and
squinting out into the dimly lighted corridor without his glasses.
Mortification seemed to paralyze Carrington's speech. Bringing the
nozzle forward abjectly, so that Mr. Stockbridge could see his plight,
he faltered:
"I--"
At that moment his finger was shot like a bullet from a gun, and the
ensuing stream of water caught Mr. Stockbridge squarely in the throat.
Simultaneously, a supreme inspiration came to Carrington.
"I'm a _fireman_," he cried in a disguised voice. "Wake your family at
once!"
Whereupon, as Mr. Stockbridge rushed back into the apartment,
Carrington, dropping the hose, made a thrilling rescue of himself down
the stairway, and darted into the street before the drowsy dignitary in
the vestibule could raise his head.
JANGLES
THOSE SYMPHONY CONCERT PROGRAMS
_METROPOLITAN SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA_
OTTO CULMBACHER, _Conductor_
FELICE ELEFANTINE, _Soloiste of the evening_
I. GASTRONOMIC SYMPHONY--_Kovik-Bordunov_
(a) Allegretti
(b) Pistachio
(c) Chianti
(d) Risotto, con aglio
II. LARGHETTO _Culmbacher_
III. ARIA FROM "IL CAMPANILE" _Gondola_
(SIGNORINA ELEFANTINE)
(_The Hardwood Piano is used_)
* * * * *
CRITICAL COMMENTS ON THE NUMBERS
I. _Gastronomic Symphony_. It is not certain when Ptior Kovik-Bordunov
was born. His parents, being thrifty peasants, put him in a basket and
left him on the steppes of Russia. Adopted by a Russian Princess, named
Caviar Vodka, he was raised as if he had been her own dog. His early
musical inclination was so pronounced that he was sent to the Warsaw
Conservatory, where he served three terms. Soon after being released
from this institution he wrote "Samovar," the opera that made him
famous. "Samovar" so pleased the Czar that young Bordunov was given a
pension and a bath. But alas! either his sudden success or the bath so
affected his mind, that from that time on the authorities were obliged
to keep him in confinement. The above symphony was written on the walls
of his cell, from which it was transcribed after his suicide. It depicts
the blight of all his hopes, the sorrows of Russia, the drowning of his
fiancée, the height of the steppes, and the agonies of indigestion.
The Allegretti opens with an arabesque tone-poem of somber sweetness,
under which strange and varied delights are hidden. Then comes the minor
Pistachio, weirdly oriental in color. This is followed by the
tempestuous and maddening Chianti. Last of all comes the terrible
Risotto, con aglio. Here we have an example of the insight of genius! By
itself, the Risotto con aglio would be almost mild; but coming as it
does on top of the Allegretti, the Pistachio, and the Chianti, it is
bound to produce a truly tragic finale.
II. _Larghetto_. This étude is by the conductor. (He thought this would
be a good place to work it in, the orchestra and audience being
powerless to restrain him.)
Herr Otto Fédor Ivan Culmbacher was born of noble parents in Hofbräu,
Silesia. He was discovered and imported to America by the brilliant
patronesses of the Metropolitan Symphony Society.
A larghetto is a little largo--one without a handel. A composer writes a
larghetto when he feels something like writing a largo but isn't, on the
whole, quite up to it.
III. _Aria from "Il Campanile."_ This opera, though well known in
Budapest and South America, is practically unknown in the United States.
The aria, "O belli spaghetti," is so vocally exacting that to sing its
bird-like notes a prima donna should diet for weeks on bird seed. Here
are the words--which are repeated fourteen times in the course of the
aria.
THE ITALIAN THE TRANSLATION
O belli spaghetti, Had I the wings of a dove,
O bianchi confetti. I would fly, I would fly to my love.
Bananni, bananni, I would fly, I would fly,
E tutti frutti-- Through the sky, through the sky,
O bianchi confetti! I would fly, I would fly to my love!
(_She waddles off_)
HOW TO KNOW THE INSTRUMENTS
(Editor's Note.--The following observations, if carefully studied,
will enable the intelligent concertgoer to tell the difference
between an orchestra and a dress circle.)
The principal instrument in music is the violin. This instrument is held
fast under the performer's double chin and then tickled in the gut with
a strand of horse hair until it cries out. Which cruel treatment reacts
on its disposition, so that, as the little violin grows up into a
'cello, it becomes gloomy and morose; and when, after a life of nagging,
it reaches old age as a crabbed double bass and is relegated to the back
of the orchestra, it spends its resentment in querulous grumbling.
Further from the conductor than the violins, and, consequently, more
intermittent in their playing, are the Tootle family. Grandfather
Tootle, the bassoon, spends his time in dozing: all you can hear from
him is an occasional snore. Mrs. Tootle, the flute, is of a romantic
turn of mind, doting on moonlight and warbling birds and babbling
brooks. She prides herself on her limpid utterance, and admonishes her
little son Piccolo not to talk through his nose like Cousin Oboe Tootle.
Her husband, the bass clarinet, takes himself very seriously--and no
wonder, for to him falls the unpleasant duty of announcing bad news,
such as that the hero has just died, or that the act is only half over.
Quite remote from the conductor are the mysterious somethings that live
in kettle-drums. What they are no one knows; but a watchful keeper bends
over and listens to them, and whenever, despite his constant
cork-screwing, they show signs of aggressiveness, he beats them into
submission with a brace of bottle-mops. If this is not sufficient, he
calls in an assistant, who cows them with the roar of a whanging Chinese
stewpan.
Somewhat nearer the conductor, but yet far enough away to be able to
resist his authority until threatened with his stick, are the horns, the
most vehement members of the orchestra. A blast from them, besides
waking up the audience, always means something. For example, the martial
sound of a trumpet heralds the approach of a conqueror or a
scissors-grinder.
The old-fashioned hunting horn, from which the modern orchestral horn is
descended, was very simple indeed. In those days every one was supposed
to wind his horn, instead of buying it already wound, as we do now.
Yet the modern pretzelized horn is still adapted for hunting purposes.
Take as large a horn as you can conveniently carry (a 42-centimetre tuba
is preferable) and stand under a tree, with the muzzle pointing up at
the bird you desire to hunt. Then play "Silver Threads Among the Gold"
for two hours and ten minutes, and the bird will fall lifeless into the
horn.
NOTES ON PIANOS
[Illustration]
A piano is an instrument with eighty-eight keys and twenty installments.
You play on the keys and pay on the installments--the latter being by
far the more difficult performance. If you do not play in time, you are
called down by your critics; if you do not pay on time, you are called
on by your collectors.
The keys are arranged in two rows--short, fat blondes in front, and
tall, skinny brunettes behind. There are three pedals (one for each
foot, and one for good measure): the damper pedal (or muffler cut-out),
which puts an end to conversation; the sostenuto pedal, which helps the
piano sustain what it has to sustain; and the soft pedal, which is
seldom used, and then only by request.
There are two kinds of pianos--uprights and prostrates. Uprights are
used in homes where there is standing room only. Prostrates are used in
concert halls--virtuosi prefer them, because they can hit a piano much
harder when it is down. The upright piano is frequently pitched in A
flat. It remains there till pitched out by the neighbors.
An advantage that this piano possesses is that it keeps the player's
back turned to his hearers, which is a great saving to his feelings.
Another advantage is that the top serves as a mantelpiece annex;
bric-a-brac that won't stand heat but will stand noise is put there.
Anything is appropriate--cupids, shepherdesses, brass bowls, painted
vases. The only requirement for a place on this repository is that the
object be able to make some buzzing, twanging, wheezing, or humming
sound when the strings are struck.
Prostrates are built for endurance. Their black finish bespeaks the hard
life they lead.
A conflict between one of these indestructible pianos and an
irresistible pianist is called a recital. A non-combatant lifts the lid,
and the fight begins. FIRST ROUND: _Nocturne_. (Merely warming up.)
SECOND ROUND: _Etude_. (Livelier, but not much heavy hitting.) THIRD
ROUND: _Scherzo_. (Considerably hotter; fighting in close.) FOURTH
ROUND: _Appassionato_. (Real slugging.) FIFTH ROUND: _Rhapsodie_. (Piano
receives fearful punishment. Knocked out in final cadenza, but pianist
sprains wrist.)
In learning to play the piano, the first thing to acquire is a good
touch, or tread (as it is properly called). Unfortunately, there is a
divergence of opinion among authorities as to what a good tread consists
in; the famous dictum of Prof. Biffski, of Moscow Conservatory, that you
should hammer the hammers, being offset by the equally famous assertion
of Hieronimus Dudelsack, the noted Viennese pedagogue, that you should
not strike the ivories at all, but massage, or knead them. Herr
Dudelsack and his eminent pupils maintain that his tread is the only
normal one, that it has the naturalness of a cat's walking on the
keyboard. But the astute Russian insinuates that it produces tangled
chords and scales that are short-weight.
But these methods have been rendered obsolete by the heel-and-toe
technique of the playerpiano. This wonderful instrument, impregnating
the feet with melody and rhythm, has given rise to the modern dances.
For a person who makes a habit of playing the pianola simply _has_ to
toddle the music out of his ankles.
Even more remarkable is the way in which the piano-footy has simplified
musical composition. The masters of the past had to toil away painfully
with pen and ink; whereas the composer of today can attain the same
results with a roll of paper and a ticket-punch. Judging from the
progress we have made and are still making, it is safe to predict that
the composer of the future will use a shotgun.
THE LIFE-DRAMA OF A MUSICAL CRITIC
IN FOUR CLIPPINGS
_I. ADOLESCENCE_
From the Centerville "Clarion":
LOCAL TALENT MAKES SPLENDID SHOWING
The concert held last evening in Masonic Hall was a great success. It
certainly showed what Centerville could do in a musical line. From the
opening duet, played by Miss Violet and Miss Nancy Stubbs, to the very
end of the program, the audience seemed to thoroughly enjoy every
number. But the feature of the evening was the singing by Mr. Harry
Bowers of "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep." This noble song gave the
popular young druggist an opportunity to display his remarkable low
notes. Another person deserving of special mention was Miss Helen Smith,
who, attractively dressed in pink and carrying a bouquet of fresh
flowers, rendered "The Rosary" with great effect. All in all, the
concert was a great event, and a considerable amount of money was raised
toward the new fire-engine.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN SIMPSON,
Music and Art Critic.
[Illustration]
_II. EFFERVESCENCE_
From the "New York Chronicle":
GOTHAM ORCHESTRA PLAYS SCHNITZEL
Warmth of Oriental Color
Adolf Schnitzel's symphonic poem "Aus Bengalien," which was admirably
performed last evening by the Gotham Symphony Orchestra, shows a
masterly understanding of the folk-music of India. The Bengalese have
from the earliest times been noted for their proficience in the arts.
Their principal instrument is the _bimbam_, an elongated drum, played
upon with any convenient article, such as an elephant's tusk or the bone
of an ancestor. When struck at one end, it emits the sound _bim_; when
struck at the other, a clear-toned _bam_ is produced: hence its curious
name. The following melody, known as the "War-Song of Prince Brahmadan,"
gives one an idea of the capacity of this instrument:
Bim-bim-bam, bim-bam-bim.
The chorus is also characteristic:
Bim, bim!
At the religious ceremonies of the Bengalese, the Futrib, or high
priest, plays upon a peculiar one-toned flute, producing an effect of
awe and mystery, as this hymn to the sun-god aptly illustrates:
Too--oo--t!
Toot, toot-a-toot, toot-a-toot, toot;
Too--oo--t!
With this wealth of material to draw from, Schnitzel has constructed a
work that is nearly perfect in form. Beginning with a soft
_bim-bam-bim_, which is followed by a sinister _toot, toot_, he works up
to a climax of marvelous contrapuntal ingenuity, in which the two themes
are combined thus:
Bim, toot, bam, toot-a-toot,
Truly the apotheosis of Bengal!
A. L. S.
_III. ACQUIESCENCE_
From the "New York Chronicle":
"WASHINGTON" REPEATED
Last night was a brilliant one at the opera. "Washington," the new
American music-drama, was given for the second time, with the same cast
as before.
Among those who attended the performance were Mrs. Pierpont Astorbilt,
who wore pale nesserole garnished with soufflée; Mr. and Mrs.
Plantagenet Carter, the latter in an exquisite creation of blanc-mange;
and Mrs. Sibley Harwood-Stevens, in gray limousine, air-cooled with
insertion.
Mrs. Reginald Carrington's guests were Lord and Lady Shrewby and the Duc
de Vaurien. The latter wore a black dress-suit and a white shirt.
Mrs. Gaybird was present for the first time since the death of her
husband. She wore her skirt at half-mast.
(_Unsigned_)
_IV. SENESCENCE_
[Illustration]
From the New York "Evening Spot":
BASSOON CONCERT A RELIEF FROM MODERNISM
BY A. LINCOLN SIMPSON
New York is suffering from a plethora of concerts. The fact that the
halls are generally crowded is no excuse for giving so many
performances. It is unfair to the critics.
Yesterday afternoon, at the concert of the Gotham Symphony Society
Ludwig Käse played that great German master-work, the Leberwurst bassoon
concerto in F-flat major, opus posthumous. ("Posthumous" does not in
this case have its usual meaning of written after the defunction of the
composer's brain: it refers to the fact that Leberwurst did not live to
publish the work, as his audience lynched him when he played it from
manuscript.) This concerto, dedicated to the composer's patron, the deaf
old Duke of Pretzelheim, bears the title of "Spring," and this vernal
quality was admirably brought out by Herr Käse, particularly in the
movement representing influenza. Indeed, it was impossible to hear his
sublime sniffulations without being moved to profound coughing.
François Grisé's "Gingerbread Suite," scored for viola, piccolo,
trombone, and celesta, might have been interesting had it been more of a
novelty; but, since it had been heard in New York five times within four
years, its performance on this occasion was a mistake.
The program included also a symphonic rhapsody on cow-boy melodies. As
this is by an obscure native composer and has never been heard before,
there is nothing to say about it.
[Illustration: _Even people sitting behind pillars can enjoy her._]
THE SURVIVAL OF THE FATTEST
There is no lightweight championship in opera. Stars of the first
magnitude are of very considerable magnitude--300 pounds and up. In this
class are the expensive prima donnas and heroic tenors (the term
"heroic" referring to their efforts to move about the stage). The second
magnitude--250 to 299 pounds--includes "jilted beauty" mezzo-sopranos
and "hated rival" baritones. The third magnitude (of which no one takes
any notice)--under 250 pounds--is made up of "confidante" contraltos and
"noble father" bassos.
Thus, it will readily be seen that fat and fame are synonymous. For, in
navigating the high C's, latitude is far more important than longitude.
Italian opera was made possible by the discovery of spaghetti, the
serpentine food that produces coloratura tissue. A few miles of this
swallowed daily will keep the palate _leggiero_ and the figure
_larghissimo_.
In like manner, beer is responsible for the national opera of Germany.
Who would have heard of Wagner if Pilsener had never been invented?
Where could Wagner have found his massive Brunhildes, his slow-dying
Tristans?
Here lies the secret of the failure of our national music drama--we have
spaghetti opera and beer opera, but no opera built on an American food.
Emaciated from a diet of pebbly cereals and grape juice, our art still
awaits the invention of the great American fattener.
For fat constitutes the wonder of opera. When a diva who looks like a
hippo surprises us by singing like a canary--_that_ is something
remarkable. When a languid mass of blubber, for whom the very act of
standing would seem a supreme accomplishment, displays the lung energy
of a steam calliope and the vocal endurance of a peanut-stand
whistle--we are astonished, overcome.
And fat robs the tragic ending of its depression. The sight of a
normally-built woman expiring of heartbreak, or any other favorite
operatic death, would be most distressing; but the spectacle of a
four-hundred pound consumptive, on a thickly-padded canvas-and-steel
rock, breathing forth her everlasting last, like a moping walrus on a
cake of ice--such a spectacle does not disturb us in the least, for we
realize that all she needs is a fan.
Indeed, the fattest never die. After a prima donna is no longer able to
manoeuver over the operatic stage, she toddles along the carpet of the
concert platform, tugging her train like a double-expansion
freight-engine, while the audience applauds from sheer amazement. She is
an immense success--even people sitting behind posts can see her.
Thin singers perish and are forgotten (there never were any, anyhow);
but the gloriously fat ones sing on forever. When Judgment Day comes and
the angel blows his trumpet, he will have to toot it with Wagnerian fury
plus Straussian blatancy if he hopes to be heard above the aigretted and
tiaraed dodos who are still on the yell.