The brass band played _Im Köpfle zwei Augle_, and it seemed to her that
the souls of these men were like notes of this music, crying for
something elusive, for something in vain. To blare forth one’s love on a
brass trumpet! An earnest of one’s high endeavour fallen short through
the inadequate matter of brass; but withal in these abortive notes one
felt the presence of the heights the instrument would reach, alas, if it
but could!
It touched her to the heart. She would have liked her Otto to play the
trumpet instead of the big drum. It seemed more romantic. Otto was not a
bit romantic. He was a soldier all right, but he looked more like a man
who had started life as a shoemaker’s apprentice, had grown old, and was
still a shoemaker’s apprentice. The band played well--a compact
synthetic body--but Otto was a forlorn figure who watched the
proceedings with sustained and patient interest and was suffered by
them, every now and then, to raise his drumstick and to give a solitary,
judicious “Bang!” And he--a tall gaunt man--seemed as though he were
ashamed of his small part. And as she watched him she felt a pang of
pity for herself: wedded to him, she would be forgotten, while life,
indifferent, strode by; and no one in the world would care whether she
had her share of happiness before she died. And the music brought this
out acutely, as if along the hard stone-paved indifference of life it
dragged, dragged on excruciating its living bleeding soul. It spoke of
loneliness, of laughter, of the pathos, pity and futility of life.
She watched them. The bayonets at their side. The military badges of
rank. The hard discipline. And the music seemed to say, “Stop! What are
you doing? Why are you doing this?” And thoughts flowed into her mind.
Of soldiers dreaming on a Sunday afternoon. A fierce old corporal, of
whom everyone was afraid, talking to her of children and of daisies.
Soldiers who, too, had dreams in long waves--of what? she did not
know--but not this. And the men who stood up and blew the brass trumpets
seemed to say, and the shining trumpets themselves seemed to say: “We
were not born for the Army; we were born for something better--though
Heaven only knows what it is!”
That was so. Undeniably so. Yet she wished it were otherwise. It helped
to make allowances for Otto. Whatever else he lacked, it made her think
at least he had a soul. But to be wedded for life to the big drum! She
did not fancy the idea. It didn’t seem a proper career. But Otto showed
no sign of _wanting_ to “get on”--even in the orchestra. The most
exasperating thing about it all was that Otto showed no sign of even
_trying_! She had asked him if he would not, in time, “move on” and take
over--say, the double-bass. He did not seem to think it either feasible
or necessary. Or _necessary_! He had been with the big drum for close
on twelve years. “It’s a good drum,” he had said. And that was all.
There was no ... “go” in him. That was it: no go. It was no use denying
it. As she watched him--gaunt and spectacled--she wished Otto were more
of a man and less of an old maid. The conductor, a boozer with a fat red
face full of pimples, some dead and dried up, others still flourishing,
was a gallant--every inch a man. He had the elasticity and suppleness
and military alertness of the continental military man. She could not
tell his rank from the stripes on his sleeves, but thought he must be a
major. His heels were high and tipped with indiarubber, and so were
straight and smart, but his trousers lacked the footstrap to keep them
in position--poor dilapidated Austrian Army! How low it had sunk!
Nevertheless they were tight and narrow and showed off the major’s
calves to advantage. He wore a pince-nez, but a rimless kind, through
which gazed a pair of not altogether innocent eyes. But a man and a
leader of men. While Otto had no rubber on his heels. His heels looked
eaten away. He wore a pair of spectacles through which he peered from
afar at his neighbour’s music-stand, and at the appointed time--not
one-tenth of a second too late or to early--down came the drumstick with
the long-awaited “Bang!” So incidental, so contemptible was Otto’s part
that, in addition to handling the drum, he had to turn the pages for the
man who played the cymbals. It seemed to her humiliating. It was very
wrong that Otto had no music-stand of his own.
He smiled shyly, and she turned away, annoyed. The little modiste walked
on, meeting the stream of people who promenaded the path surrounding the
bandstand; a man on high heels, three girls with a pinched look, a
famous Tyrolese basso with a long ruddy beard, a _jeune premier_ with
whiskers and hair like a wig, whose look appeared to imply: “Here am I.”
Innsbruck looked morose that Sunday morning, and the military band in
the park executed music that was tattered, gross, a little common, yet
compelling, even like the daily fare of life. Oh, why were there no
heroes? Of course she would have loved to be dominated. That’s what men
were for. She was a womanly woman. From Vienna. Exalted, brimming over
with life. These men of the Tyrol! And as for Otto? Why, she could have
only waved her hand!
She began to wonder whether she had not really better break it off with
him. If men would but realise how little was required from them. Only an
outward gesture of romance: a touch sufficed, the rest would be supplied
by woman’s powerful imagination. Not even so much. A mere abstention
from the cruder forms of clumsiness, a surface effort to conceal one’s
feeblest worst. A mere semblance of mastery, a glimpse of a will. In
short, anything at all that would provide the least excuse for loving
him as she so wished to do. A minute she stood, thinking. “A minimum.
Hardly as much.” There passed along the man on high heels, the three
girls with the pinched look, the Tyrolese basso with the long ruddy
beard, the _jeune premier_ with whiskers and hair like a wig, whose
look seemed to say, “Here am I”; then again the man on high heels, the
three girls with the pinched look, the Tyrolese singer, and again the
“jeune premier” whose look implied, “Here am I.” They walked round and
round as if the park were a cage and there was nothing to do but walk
round--with heads bent, lifeless, sullenly resolute. And again there
came along the man on high heels. “The minimum of a minimum....”
The music resumed. She consulted her programme. Item 7. Potpourri from
the operette _Die Fledermaus_ by Johann Strauss. She returned to the
stand, prepared to give her fiancé another chance. Otto’s part, as
before, was contemptible, more contemptible than before. He was
inactive. He smiled shyly. She coloured. And, looking at him, she knew.
She knew it was no use, her love could not bridge the chasm. He was
despised by the rest of the band. A stick-in-the-mud. Not a man. A poor
fish. Not for her....
The potpourri, as if suddenly turning the corner, broke out into a
resounding march, and behold, the big drum now led the way. Bang! bang!
bang! bang! Clearly he whacked, never once missing the chance; and the
man with the cymbals, as if one heart and brain operated their limbs,
clashed the cymbals in astounding unison, the big drum pounding away,
pounding away, without cease or respite. And the trumpeters smiled, as
who might say: “Good old big drum! You have come into your own at last!”
Bang! bang! bang! bang! The big drum had got loud and excited. And all
the people standing around looked as though a great joy had come into
their lives; and if they had not been a little shy of each other they
would have set out and marched in step with the music, taken up any
cause and, if only because the music implied that all men were brothers,
gone forth if need be and butchered another body of brothers, to the
tearing, gladdening strains of the march, (since it is not known from
what rational cause men could have marched to the war). And if in the
park of the neighbouring town there were just such a band with just
such a drum which played this same music, the people of the neighbouring
town would have marched to this music and exterminated this town. The
conductor, like a driver who, having urged his horse over the hill,
leans back and leaves the rest to the horse, conceded the enterprise to
the drummer, as if the hard, intricate work were now over and he was
taking it easy; his baton moved perfunctorily in the wake of the drum,
he looked round and acknowledged the greetings of friends with gay,
informal salutes of the left hand, his bland smile freely admitting to
all that it was no longer himself but the drum which led them to
victory. Or rather, the hard fight had already been won and these,
behold, were the happy results! Bang! bang! bang! bang! Strangers passed
smiles of intimate recognition, old men nodded reminiscently, small boys
gazed with rapt eyes, women looked sweet and bright-eyed, ready to
oblige with a kiss; while the big drum, conscious of his splendid
initiative, pounded away without cease or respite.
“Wonderful! Beautiful!” said the public surrounding them. And thought:
“Noise is a good thing.”
The band had described the first circle and was repeating it with added
gusto and deliberation. The drum and the cymbals were pounding, pounding
their due through the wholly inadequate blazing of brass. But these did
not mind: “Every dog has his day”--and they followed the lead of the
drum. He led them. He--Otto! Her Otto was leading them. God! Merciful
Virgin! What had she done to deserve such happiness? Otto!... And she
had doubted him, thought there was no “go” in him. No _go_! She burnt
red with shame at the mere thought of it. He was all “go.” And didn’t he
make them go, too, the whole lot of them? How he led them! Puffing, the
sweat streaming down their purple faces, they blazed away till their
cheeks seemed ready to burst, but Otto out-drummed them--annihilated
their efforts. He--Otto! O, God! Watching him, people could hardly keep
still. But that none of them stirred and all of them wanted to, added
piquancy to the illusion of motion. They stood rooted--while the drum
carried on for them: Bang! bang! bang! bang!
“Marvelous!” sighed the public around them.
Her Otto--cock of the walk! She could scarcely believe her eyes.
Standing in front of the crowd, only a few paces from his side and
raising herself on her toes ever so gently in rhythm with the music, so
that by the very tininess of her movements she seemed to be sending
added impetus into the band, as if, indeed, she were pressing with her
little feet some invisible pump, she scanned his face with tenderness,
in dumb adoration. And Otto at the drum must have felt it, for, at this
turn, he put new life into his thundering whacks: _Bang! bang! bang!
bang!_ he toiled, and the conductor, as if divining what was afoot, at
that moment accelerated the pace of the march.
“Bravo, bravo!” said the people surrounding them.
There was no doubt about it. This was Art. The unerring precision. The
wonderful touch. Otto!... Otto, as never before, whacked the big drum,
whacked it in excitement, in a frenzy, in transcending exaltation.
Thundering bangs! And now she knew--what she couldn’t have dreamed--she
knew it by his face. Otto was a hero. A leader of men. Something
fluttered in her breast, as though a bird had flown in, ready to fly
out.
“Now it’s all over,” thought the people, “and we are going home to
lunch.” And everyone smiled and felt very happy and gay. A sort of
prolonged accelerated thundering of the big drum, and then one
tremendous BANG!
The thing was over. The conductor raised a bent hand to the peak of his
cap, acknowledging the applause. The bird in her fluttered more wildly
than ever. She wanted to cry out, but her throat would not obey. She
clutched at her heaving breast with trembling fingers. “My love,” she
thought. “My king! My captain!----”