"'And he diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-did-dle-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 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. It quite made one's
flesh creep; but we murmured to one another that it was the German
method, and prepared to enjoy it.
I don't understand German myself. I learned it at school, but forgot
every word of it two years after I had left, and have felt much better
ever since. Still, I did not want the people there to guess my
ignorance; so I hit upon what I thought to be rather a good idea. I kept
my eye on the two young students, and followed them. When they tittered,
I tittered; when they roared, I roared; and I also threw in a little
snigger all by myself now and then, as if I had seen a bit of humor that
had escaped the others. I considered this particularly artful on my
part.
I noticed, as the song progressed, that a good many other people seemed
to have their eyes fixed on the two young men, as well as myself. These
other people also tittered when the young men tittered, and roared when
the young men roared; and, as the two young men tittered and roared and
exploded with laughter pretty continuously all through the song, it went
exceedingly well.
And yet that German professor did not seem happy. At first, when we
began to laugh, the expression of his face was one of intense surprise,
as if laughter were the very last thing he had expected to be greeted
with. We thought this very funny: we said his earnest manner was half
the humor. The slightest hint on his part that he knew how funny he was
would have completely ruined it all. As we continued to laugh, his
surprise gave way to an air of annoyance and indignation, and he scowled
fiercely round upon us all (except the two young men, who, being behind
him, could not be seen). That sent us into convulsions. We told each
other it would be the death of us, this thing. The words alone, we said,
were enough to send us into fits, but added to his mock seriousness--oh,
it was too much!
In the last verse, he surpassed himself. He glowered round upon us with
a look of such concentrated ferocity that, but for our being forewarned
as to the German method of comic singing, we should have been nervous;
and he threw such a wailing note of agony into the weird music that, if
we had not known it was a funny song, we might have wept.
He finished amid a perfect shriek of laughter. We said it was the
funniest thing we had ever heard in all our lives. We said how strange
it was that, in the face of things like these, there should be a popular
notion that the Germans hadn't any sense of humor. And we asked the
Professor why he didn't translate the song into English, so that the
common people could understand it, and hear what a real comic song was
like.
Then Herr Slossenn Boschen got up, and went on awful. He swore at us in
German (which I should judge to be a singularly effective language for
that purpose), and he danced, and shook his fists, and called us all the
English he knew. He said he had never been so insulted in all his life.
It appeared that the song was not a comic song at all. It was about a
young girl who lived in the Harz Mountains, and who had given up her
life to save her lover's soul; and he died, and met her spirit in the
air; and then, in the last verse, he jilted her spirit, and went on with
another spirit--I'm not quite sure of the details, but it was something
very sad, I know. Herr Boschen said he had sung it once before the
German Emperor, and he (the German Emperor) had sobbed like a little
child. He (Herr Boschen) said it was generally acknowledged to be one of
the most tragic and pathetic songs in the German language.
It was a trying situation for us--very trying. There seemed to be no
answer. We looked around for the two young men who had done this thing,
but they had left the house in an unostentatious manner immediately
after the end of the song.
That was the end of that party. I never saw a party break up so quietly,
and with so little fuss. We never said good-night even to one another.
We came downstairs one at a time, walking softly, and keeping the shady
side. We asked the servant for our hats and coats in whispers, and
opened the door, and slipped out, and got round the corner quickly,
avoiding each other as much as possible.