Yesterday I celebrated the beginning of my holidays by patronising _The
Melodities_ on the beach. _The Melodities_ are a band of entertainers
who draw enormous salaries for giving a couple of performances daily in
a kind of luxurious open-air theatre.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," announced the Manager soon after I had taken my
seat, "our first item will be a Song Scena entitled _The Moon_, by
Bertie Weston, assisted by six members of the company." A quiver of
expectation ran through the crowded audience.
Bertie Weston, wearing a uniform resembling (I imagine) that of a
Patagonian Vice-Admiral, advanced mincingly to the footlights, and the
six others, similarly attired, ranged themselves in a row behind him.
Behind these again dropped a back-cloth representing a stone balustrade,
blue hills and fleecy clouds.
There was a burst of warm applause, in response to which Bertie politely
bowed his thanks. Without further preliminary he commenced--
The crescent moon on high
Is shining in the sky.
Here the six turned up their faces and gazed pensively at the heavens
(it was still broad daylight, by the way), at the same time resting
their chins on their right hands and their right elbows on their left
hands.
The sun is gone,
The stars are wan,
Oh come, my love, we'll wander, you and I.
Here the six ceased to regard the sky, split into pairs and by
pantomimic gesture invited one another to wander.
Across the hills we'll go,
While birds sing soft and low,
The singer paused for an instant, while the six, now formed into a
semicircle, hummed together softly a suggestion of distant nightingales.
Not an imitation--that would be too banal--but a suggestion. In point of
fact I thought I detected the air of "The Little Grey Home in the West."
While the silver moon adorns the summer sky.
After a brief pause, brightened by what are vulgarly termed twiddly bits
on the piano, the soloist sang the chorus, softly and appealing, with a
sort of treacly intonation:--
Moon, moon, moon,
We'll come soon, soon,
Across the hills while all the world is dreaming.
Moon, moon, moon,
I'd like to swoon, swoon,
The heads of the six drooped listlessly and their hands fell languidly
to their sides; their eyes closed.
When I see your white rays beaming, gleaming, streaming.
The six awoke briskly and commenced to glide around the stage,
describing circles, figures of eight, and other more intricate patterns,
while Bertie swayed his body rhythmically from side to side, his arms
and hands outstretched and palms turned downwards. In this formation
they all repeated the chorus together.
Bertie now cleared his throat and started on the second verse without
delay. The six stood sideways, their hands in their trousers pockets and
their faces turned to the audience.
Oh, moon of dainty grace,
Shine on my loved one's face.
The footlights were suddenly switched off and each of the six produced a
small electric torch and illuminated his neighbour's features. The
effect was startling. Presently the footlights reappeared as abruptly as
they had vanished and the torches were extinguished.
Upon the hill
The night is still.
Again there was a short pause, during which the six breathed lightly
through their teeth, producing a faint and long-drawn
_sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh_.
Oh come, my love, together let us haste.
The six ceased sh-sh-ing and gracefully invited one another to haste.
Away, away, we'll roam
To seek our fairy home,
While the silver moon illuminates the place.
The six placed both hands on their breasts and stood with bowed heads,
motionless except for a continuous and rhythmic bending of the knees,
while Bertie sang the chorus softly, lingeringly. Then, stretching out
their arms, they swayed their bodies from side to side as their leader
had previously done, while Bertie himself drifted in and out between
them, and all rendered the chorus for the second time.
Moon, moon, moon,
We'll come soon, soon.
Across the hills while all the world is dreaming.
Moon, moon, moon,
I want to swoon, swoon,
When I see your white rays beaming, gleaming, streaming.
There was a moment's emotional silence, broken by a thunder of rapturous
applause. The Song Scena, all too short, was finished.
Anxious not to risk spoiling the impression, I arose and left hastily
before the next turn.
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