_By_ JEROME K. JEROME
Harris has a fixed idea 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 never to 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,
afterward, 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 the accompaniment
to the Judge's song out of "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 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 chucklehead, 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 favorable opening in
the music, begins:_]