At the head of a stairway which one reached by going through a
tobacconist's, Herr Klotz greeted us with guttural cordiality. We asked
after his wife, and were told that she was a little better, though very
weak, and had insisted upon seeing her guests before they left, if they
would be so kind as to visit the sickroom.
On the contents of an enormous hamper sent from "Arcadia" (and, I am
certain, paid for by Norman) the German and the two of us lunched with
all the bonhomie of bohemians. Basil Norman was in the best of spirits,
so much so, in fact, that Klotz was constantly overcome with laughter,
and on three occasions was forced to rush away to acquaint his wife
"mit der amuzing veet of zee altogedderillustrious Herr Norman."
By no means least in importance, Klotz's little son of about four years
of age sat in a high chair and chuckled knowingly whenever he deemed
the humor had reached a necessary climax.
Though he was not unlike his father in the shape of his head, his chin
did not recede, and one could only assume the mother had supplied the
qualities lacking in the father. Never for a moment did the child lose
interest in the proceedings; he followed throughout the facial
expression and the play of conversation of his elders. His face
interested me so intensely that I found myself glancing at him whenever
his interest in the others gave me a chance; there was so much of
promise and heredity about him.
"And what," I said, during a momentary lull in the merriment, "is
Master Siegfried to become?" We had learned his name a moment before.
"Siegfried," said his father, "tell zee gentlemens vot you to be
already intend."
The little chap smiled, but without self-consciousness. "A
conducthtor," he lisped, "like Herr Nikith."
Klotz crossed his hands upon his ample waistcoat and beamed paternally.
"Your baton bring," he said, "und der score _Tristan_."
With profuse apologies for this display of juvenile precocity, the
violinist hurried after the boy, and reëntered a moment later with his
violin and a music-stand, which he proceeded to set up.
Siegfried followed close on his heels with the full orchestral score of
the last act of _Tristan and Isolde_, which almost obscured him from
sight. Placing it on the stand, he retired in a dignified manner; and
Herr Klotz, taking a chair, seated himself at the left of the stand,
and proceeded to tune his fiddle to pitch, varying the proceedings with
imitations of French-horns, vagrant clarionets, and irresponsible
trombones in the mélange of discord which always precedes the entrance
of the conductor. Norman, who had been enjoying the scene to the full,
suddenly rose to his feet.
"Herr Klotz," he said sternly, "I protest."
The tuning ceased, and the violinist looked anxiously at his guest.
"You do not like dis, zumtimes?" he faltered.
"I object," cried Basil, "to being left out.--Herr Siegfried!" He
raised his voice. "Herr Siegfried!"
The little chap walked solemnly in, a baton in his hand. "Yeth?" he
said.
"_Mein Herr_, my friend and myself desire to join your orchestra."
The youthful conductor considered, ruminatingly. "You blay goot?" he
said.
"Wonderfully. I was comb-and-tissue-paper-player in the Cascade Steam
Laundry Orchestra, and my friend----"
"He ith goot alzo?"
"Pest, speak for yourself."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Far be it from me to brag," I said, rather
lamely, "but I was first violinist to His Majesty the King of
Diddle-doodledums."
"Ah, yes," cried Norman; "and you were dismissed because of your
unfortunate habit of playing an octave flat." He leaned over and put
his lips to Siegfried's ear. "Let him play the drums," he said in a
stage whisper.
Amidst roars of delight from the older Klotz, the youngster left the
room, and returned in a minute's time, carrying an immense tin dishpan
and a broken broom-handle, which musical impedimenta he entrusted to my
tender mercies, and then sedately stalked from the scene once more.
With mixed emotions I carried my pan and stick over to the extreme
right, and placed a chair beneath the spot where the stage-box would
be, calmly surveying the assumed audience with that look of waggish
melancholy one associates with gentlemen of the drums. Norman, whom
Klotz had armed with the combined ingredients of his instrument, placed
a chair halfway between the conductor's stand and myself, and together
we joined Herr Klotz in a two-minutes' orgy of discordant preparation.
With a desire to increase the variety of my percussion effects, I
conscripted an extra chair into service, placed it back towards me, and
prepared to use my cane as an auxiliary drumstick.
By common consent we achieved a moment's unanimity of silence, which
was seized by Herr Siegfried as the auspicious moment for his entrance.
Without the least loss of dignity he clambered onto his chair, as we
applauded, perfunctorily, by hammering our alleged music-stands with
non-existent bows; and, turning to the audience, he bowed with the
restraint of genius--a feat of condescension which appeared to delight
the throng hugely, for he was constrained to turn about and acknowledge
their plaudits a second time before they would allow him to proceed.
As drummer I assumed an air of morose boredom.
The noise of the audience having subsided, the conductor opened his
score and nodded to his _Concertmeister_, Herr Klotz, who carefully
found the required place in the orchestration.
"Blay der 'Liebestod' music," said he in his most professional manner
to us. We nodded knowingly, and found the required part in the last act
of our scores, after turning over a vast number of visionary pages.
"Do we begin at the beginning?" asked Norman.
"Yes," I answered, "and leave off at the end." After which sally I
laughed immoderately, and began to understand the instinct which causes
a humorist to enjoy his own wit more than any other's.
A rap on the stand brought my mirth to a close. Both arms were extended
in the air--a last look at both sides of the orchestra (there must have
been a hundred of us)--the left hand slowly poised to indicate
"piano"--the right hand gently raised--and then the strings were
brought into action. I had intended, as another excellent jest, to give
a tremendous crash on the pan at the start, so as to bring down the
leader's wrath, but something in the little chap's attitude stopped me.
This was not play to him--it was real; and, to my amazement, it seemed
no less vivid to my fellow-burlesquers. Herr Klotz was playing the
chromatic development of the opening as if it had been Covent Garden
and the real Nikisch conducting. The Blower of Bubbles was giving one
more proof of his amazing versatility. In some manner he was imitating
a cello, and he _knew_ the music. Where he had learned it one could
only conjecture--but when did he learn anything?
Silently I watched the serio-comic development. The boy was conducting
remarkably, with unerring artistry, sustaining the exact Wagnerian
_tempi_, and, with little exaggeration, indicating the crescendo
and diminuendo which colors all the great master's composition. How
much of it he knew or whether he was following his father's violin I
could not make out, but his earnestness fascinated me; and suddenly his
eyes turned towards mine. I gripped the broom-handle--but no, it was
merely a warning that my time was imminent. I think my breath came
short as I waited. Then his eyes sought mine once more, and inclining
towards me, his baton called for the drums. It was _I_ he was
conducting, and no one else! And I vibrated the broom-handle against
the dish-pan, only to stop instantaneously as his baton moved to
subtler instruments. He never failed to warn me with that preliminary
glance, and when the magic wand followed I gave him all I had. The
little beggar was a hypnotist.
Towards the climax I could have sworn the whole orchestra was there.
Klotz was playing superbly, and Norman was roaming from one instrument
to the other with a remarkable combination of accuracy and imitative
versatility. As for me, I supplied dynamic effects that would have
satisfied even the great Beethoven, who once asked for guns.
Then it was over.
Herr Siegfried bowed twice to the audience, indicated his entire
orchestra with an all-embracing wave of the baton, and ended by
solemnly shaking hands with his father, who stood up to accept the
honor. After that, with a self-conscious wriggle, he became the boy
once more, and removed his spell from us. With roars of delight we
gathered about him, making a circle by joining hands, and dancing
extempore, we sang a chorus consisting of constant repetitions of
"Hilee-hilo! Hilee-hilo!" That may not be the correct spelling, but
then we were singing, not writing it--which is one advantage music has
over literature.
Before we went, Herr Klotz took us into the room where his wife lay
ill, and by her eyes--for she was too weak to speak--she thanked us for
our part in making the day a festival one for their lonely little
household. With an instinctive gentleness that a woman might have
shown, Norman spoke of the things she wanted to hear about: how her
husband had been missed at the restaurant, of the desire of every one
to make a little present to them, of the great future that lay before
their son, and of the genius of Herr Klotz that would some day be
recognized. With the cheeriest of good-byes, he lightly touched her
shoulder with his hand and said he knew she would soon be well again.
He lied. In half of what he said he lied. He was blowing bubbles that
the woman stricken with fever might see in them some little
compensation for her life of drudgery.
With the guttural good wishes of Herr Klotz still in our ears (we had
pledged eternal friendship in three foaming mugs of beer), we sought
the street, to find that dusk was settling over the city. For some
moments neither spoke, but feeling that perhaps I had descended too
abruptly from my pedestal, I cleared my throat and ventured on a
remark.
"A decent fellow," I said patronizingly, and felt my dignity
reasserting myself; but Norman failed to hear me. He was lost in some
memory. Now that I look back, I wonder was it the picture of the sick
woman he saw or his vision of the mother with her two sons; or, with
his gift of intuition, could he see, less than a year ahead, Klotz, in
a German soldier's uniform, marching through Belgium with an army of
lust and rapine, gorged like gluttonous, venomous beasts?