Blackmailing.—The proper course to pursue.—Selfish boorishness of
river-side landowner.—“Notice” boards.—Unchristianlike feelings of
Harris.—How Harris sings a comic song.—A high-class party.—Shameful
conduct of two abandoned young men.—Some useless information.—George
buys a banjo.
We stopped under the willows by Kempton Park, and lunched. It is a
pretty little spot there: a pleasant grass plateau, running along
by the water’s edge, and overhung by willows. We had just commenced
the third course—the bread and jam—when a gentleman in shirt-sleeves
and a short pipe came along, and wanted to know if we knew that we
were trespassing. We said we hadn’t given the matter sufficient
consideration as yet to enable us to arrive at a definite conclusion on
that point, but that, if he assured us on his word as a gentleman that
we _were_ trespassing, we would, without further hesitation, believe it.
He gave us the required assurance, and we thanked him, but he still
hung about, and seemed to be dissatisfied, so we asked him if there
was anything further that we could do for him; and Harris, who is of a
chummy disposition, offered him a bit of bread and jam.
I fancy he must have belonged to some society sworn to abstain from
bread and jam; for he declined it quite gruffly, as if he were vexed at
being tempted with it, and he added that it was his duty to turn us off.
Harris said that if it was a duty it ought to be done, and asked the
man what was his idea with regard to the best means for accomplishing
it. Harris is what you would call a well-made man of about number one
size, and looks hard and bony, and the man measured him up and down,
and said he would go and consult his master, and then come back and
chuck us both into the river.
Of course, we never saw him any more, and, of course, all he really
wanted was a shilling. There are a certain number of riverside roughs
who make quite an income, during the summer, by slouching about the
banks and blackmailing weak-minded noodles in this way. They represent
themselves as sent by the proprietor. The proper course to pursue is
to offer your name and address, and leave the owner, if he really has
anything to do with the matter, to summon you, and prove what damage
you have done to his land by sitting down on a bit of it. But the
majority of people are so intensely lazy and timid, that they prefer to
encourage the imposition by giving in to it rather than put an end to
it by the exertion of a little firmness.
Where it is really the owners that are to blame, they ought to be
shown up. The selfishness of the riparian proprietor grows with every
year. If these men had their way they would close the river Thames
altogether. They actually do this along the minor tributary streams and
in the backwaters. They drive posts into the bed of the stream, and
draw chains across from bank to bank, and nail huge notice-boards on
every tree. The sight of those notice-boards rouses every evil instinct
in my nature. I feel I want to tear each one down, and hammer it over
the head of the man who put it up, until I have killed him, and then I
would bury him, and put the board up over the grave as a tombstone.
I mentioned these feelings of mine to Harris, and he said he had them
worse than that. He said he not only felt he wanted to kill the man who
caused the board to be put up, but that he should like to slaughter the
whole of his family and all his friends and relations, and then burn
down his house. This seemed to me to be going too far, and I said so to
Harris; but he answered:
“Not a bit of it. Serve ’em all jolly well right, and I’d go and sing
comic songs on the ruins.”
I was vexed to hear Harris go on in this blood-thirsty strain. We
never ought to allow our instincts of justice to degenerate into mere
vindictiveness. It was a long while before I could get Harris to take
a more Christian view of the subject, but I succeeded at last, and
he promised me that he would spare the friends and relations at all
events, and would not sing comic songs on the ruins.
You have never heard Harris sing a comic song, or you would understand
the service I had rendered to mankind. It is one of Harris’s fixed
ideas 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 to never 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, afterwards, 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.
[Picture: Harris] 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 accompaniment to 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 it
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 chuckle-head, 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 favourable opening in the music_, _begins_.]
HARRIS:
“‘When I was young and called to the Bar.’”
[_General roar of laughter_, _taken by Harris as a compliment_.
_Pianist_, _thinking of his wife and family_, _gives up the unequal
contest and retires_; _his place being taken by a stronger-nerved man_.
THE NEW PIANIST (_cheerily_): “Now then, old man, you start off, and
I’ll follow. We won’t bother about any prelude.”
HARRIS (_upon whom the explanation of matters has slowly
dawned—laughing_): “By Jove! I beg your pardon. Of course—I’ve been
mixing up the two songs. It was Jenkins confused me, you know. Now then.
[_Singing_; _his voice appearing to come from the cellar_, _and
suggesting the first low warnings of an approaching earthquake_.
“‘When I was young I served a term
As office-boy to an attorney’s firm.’
(_Aside to pianist_): “It is too low, old man; we’ll have that over
again, if you don’t mind.”
[_Sings first two lines over again_, _in a high falsetto this time_.
_Great surprise on the part of the audience_. _Nervous old lady near
the fire begins to cry_, _and has to be led out_.]
HARRIS (_continuing_):
“‘I swept the windows and I swept the door,
And I—’
No—no, I cleaned the windows of the big front door. And I polished up
the floor—no, dash it—I beg your pardon—funny thing, I can’t think of
that line. And I—and I—Oh, well, we’ll get on to the chorus, and chance
it (_sings_):
“‘And I diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-de,
Till now I am the ruler of the Queen’s navee.’
Now then, chorus—it is the last two lines repeated, you know.
GENERAL CHORUS:
“And he diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-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 played _morceaux_ from the old German masters. 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 humour 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 eye 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 humour. 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 upon the two young men who,
being behind him, he could not see). That sent us into convulsions. We
told each other that 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 humour. 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 Hartz 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 for ourselves, and slipped out, and got
round the corner quickly, avoiding each other as much as possible.
I have never taken much interest in German songs since then.
We reached Sunbury Lock at half-past three. The river is sweetly pretty
just there before you come to the gates, and the backwater is charming;
but don’t attempt to row up it.
I tried to do so once. I was sculling, and asked the fellows who were
steering if they thought it could be done, and they said, oh, yes, they
thought so, if I pulled hard. We were just under the little foot-bridge
that crosses it between the two weirs, when they said this, and I bent
down over the sculls, and set myself up, and pulled.
I pulled splendidly. I got well into a steady rhythmical swing. I put
my arms, and my legs, and my back into it. I set myself a good, quick,
dashing stroke, and worked in really grand style. My two friends said
it was a pleasure to watch me. At the end of five minutes, I thought we
ought to be pretty near the weir, and I looked up. We were under the
bridge, in exactly the same spot that we were when I began, and there
were those two idiots, injuring themselves by violent laughing. I had
been grinding away like mad to keep that boat stuck still under that
bridge. I let other people pull up backwaters against strong streams
now.
We sculled up to Walton, a rather large place for a riverside town. As
with all riverside places, only the tiniest corner of it comes down to
the water, so that from the boat you might fancy it was a village of
some half-dozen houses, all told. Windsor and Abingdon are the only
towns between London and Oxford that you can really see anything of
from the stream. All the others hide round corners, and merely peep at
the river down one street: my thanks to them for being so considerate,
and leaving the river-banks to woods and fields and water-works.
Even Reading, though it does its best to spoil and sully and make
hideous as much of the river as it can reach, is good-natured enough to
keep its ugly face a good deal out of sight.
Cæsar, of course, had a little place at Walton—a camp, or an
entrenchment, or something of that sort. Cæsar was a regular up-river
man. Also Queen Elizabeth, she was there, too. You can never get away
from that woman, go where you will. Cromwell and Bradshaw (not the
guide man, but the King Charles’s head man) likewise sojourned here.
They must have been quite a pleasant little party, altogether.
There is an iron “scold’s bridle” in Walton Church. They used these
things in ancient days for curbing women’s tongues. They have given up
the attempt now. I suppose iron was getting scarce, and nothing else
would be strong enough.
There are also tombs of note in the church, and I was afraid I should
never get Harris past them; but he didn’t seem to think of them, and we
went on. Above the bridge the river winds tremendously. This makes it
look picturesque; but it irritates you from a towing or sculling point
of view, and causes argument between the man who is pulling and the man
who is steering.
You pass Oatlands Park on the right bank here. It is a famous old
place. Henry VIII. stole it from some one or the other, I forget whom
now, and lived in it. There is a grotto in the park which you can see
for a fee, and which is supposed to be very wonderful; but I cannot see
much in it myself. The late Duchess of York, who lived at Oatlands,
was very fond of dogs, and kept an immense number. She had a special
graveyard made, in which to bury them when they died, and there they
lie, about fifty of them, with a tombstone over each, and an epitaph
inscribed thereon.
Well, I dare say they deserve it quite as much as the average Christian
does.
At “Corway Stakes”—the first bend above Walton Bridge—was fought a
battle between Cæsar and Cassivelaunus. Cassivelaunus had prepared the
river for Cæsar, by planting it full of stakes (and had, no doubt, put
up a notice-board). But Cæsar crossed in spite of this. You couldn’t
choke Cæsar off that river. He is the sort of man we want round the
backwaters now.
Halliford and Shepperton are both pretty little spots where they touch
the river; but there is nothing remarkable about either of them. There
is a tomb in Shepperton churchyard, however, with a poem on it, and
I was nervous lest Harris should want to get out and fool round it.
I saw him fix a longing eye on the landing-stage as we drew near it,
so I managed, by an adroit movement, to jerk his cap into the water,
and in the excitement of recovering that, and his indignation at my
clumsiness, he forgot all about his beloved graves.
At Weybridge, the Wey (a pretty little stream, navigable for small
boats up to Guildford, and one which I have always been making up my
mind to explore, and never have), the Bourne, and the Basingstoke Canal
all enter the Thames together. The lock is just opposite the town, and
the first thing that we saw, when we came in view of it, was George’s
blazer on one of the lock gates, closer inspection showing that George
was inside it.
Montmorency set up a furious barking, I shrieked, Harris roared; George
waved his hat, and yelled back. The lock-keeper rushed out with a
drag, under the impression that somebody had fallen into the lock, and
appeared annoyed at finding that no one had.
George had rather a curious oilskin-covered parcel in his hand. It was
round and flat at one end, with a long straight handle sticking out of
it.
“What’s that?” said Harris—“a frying-pan?”
“No,” said George, with a strange, wild look glittering in his eyes;
“they are all the rage this season; everybody has got them up the
river. It’s a banjo.”
“I never knew you played the banjo!” cried Harris and I, in one breath.
“Not exactly,” replied George: “but it’s very easy, they tell me; and
I’ve got the instruction book!”
[Picture: George and the banjo]