Elbow-Room: A Novel Without a Plot

by Charles Heber Clark

  CHAPTER XX.

  _HIGH ART_.

  An itinerant theatrical company gave two or three performances inMillburg last winter, and in a very creditable fashion, too. One ofthe plays produced was Shakespere's "King John," with the "eminenttragedian Mr. Hammer" in the character of the _King_. It is likelythat but for an unfortunate misunderstanding the entertainment wouldhave been wholly delightful. There is a good deal of flourishing oftrumpets in the drama, and the manager, not having a trumpeter of hisown, engaged a German musician named Schenck to supply the music.Schenck doesn't understand the English language very well, and themanager put him behind the scenes on the left of the stage, while themanager stood in the wing at the right of the stage. Then Schenck wasinstructed to toot his trumpet when the manager signaled with hishand. Everything went along smoothly enough until _King John_ (Mr.Hammer) came to the passage, "Ah, me! this tyrant fever burns me up!"Just as _King John_ was about to utter this the manager brushed a flyoff of his nose, and Schenck, mistaking the movement for the appointedsignal, blew out a frightful blare upon his bugle. The _King_ wasfurious and the manager made wild gestures for Schenck to stop, butthat estimable German musician imagined that the manager wanted him toplay louder, and every time a fresh motion was made Schenck emitted amore terrific blast The result was something like the following:

  _King John_. "Ah, me! this tyrant--"

  _Schenck_ (with his cheeks distended and his eyes beaming throughhis spectacles). "Ta-tarty; ta-ta-tarty, rat-tat tarty-tarty-tarty,ta-ta-ta, tanarty-arty, te-tarty."

  _King John_. "Fever burns--"

  _Schenck_. "Rat-tat-tarty, poopen-arty, oopen-arty,ta-tarty-arty-oopen-arty; ta-ta; ta-ta-ta-tarty poopen-arty, poopena-a-a-arty-arty."

  _King John_. "Ah, me! this--"

  _Schenck_ (ejecting a hurricane from his lungs)."Hoopen-oopen-oopen-arty, ta-tarty; tat-tat-ta-tarty-ti-ta-tarty;poopen-ta-poopen-ta-poopen-ta-a-a-a-tarty-whoop ta-ta."

  _King John_ (quickly). "Tyrant fever burns me up."

  _Schenck_ (with perspiration standing out on his forehead)."To-ta ta-ta. Ta-ta ta-ta tatten-atten-atten arty te-tartypoopen oopen-oo-oo-oo-oo-oopen te-tarty ta-ta-ar-ar-ar-tetarty-to-ta-a-a-a-_a_-A-+A+-+_A!_+"

  _King John_ (to the audience). "Ladies and gentlemen--"

  _Schenck_. "Ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta, poopen-oopen, poopen-oopen, te-ta,tarty oo-hoo oo-hoo-te tarty arty, appen-arty."

  _King John_. "There is a German idiot behind the scenes here who is--"

  _Schenck_. "Whoopen-arty te-tarty-arty-arty-ta-ta-a-a-a tat-tarty."

  _King John_. "Blowing infamously upon a horn, and--"

  _Schenck_. "Poopen-arty."

  _King John_. "If you will excuse me--"

  _Schenck_. "Pen-arty-arty."

  _King John_. "I will go behind the scenes and check him in his wildcareer."

  _Schenck_. "Poopen-arty ta-tarty-arty poopen-a-a-a-artytat-tat-ta-tarty."

  Then _King John_ disappeared and a scuffle was heard, with someviolent expressions in the German language. Ten minutes later agentleman from the Fatherland might have been seen standing on thepavement in front of the theatre with a bugle under his arm and ahandkerchief to his bleeding nose, wondering what on earth was thematter. In the mean time the _King_ had returned to the stage, and theperformance concluded without any music. After this the manager willemploy home talent when he wants airs on the bugle.

  * * * * *

  I have been studying the horn to some extent myself. Nothing is moredelightful than to have sweet music at home in the evenings. Itlightens the burdens of care, it soothes the ruffled feelings, itexercises a refining influence upon the children, it calms thepassions and elevates the soul. A few months ago I thought that itmight please my family if I learned to play upon the French horn. Itis a beautiful instrument, and after hearing a man perform on it at aconcert I resolved to have one. I bought a splendid one in the city,and concluded not to mention the fact to any one until I had learnedto play a tune. Then I thought I would serenade Mrs. A. some eveningand surprise her. Accordingly, I determined to practice in the garret.When I first tried the horn I expected to blow only a few gentle notesuntil I learned how to handle it; but when I put the mouth-piece to mylips, no sound was evoked. Then I blew harder. Still the horn remainedsilent. Then I drew a full breath and sent a whirlwind tearing throughthe horn; but no music came. I blew at it for half an hour, and then Iran a wire through the instrument to ascertain if anything blocked itup. It was clear. Then I blew softly and fiercely, quickly and slowly.I opened all the stops. I puffed and strained and worked until Ifeared an attack of apoplexy. Then I gave it up and went down stairs;and Mrs. A. asked me what made me look so red in the face. For fourdays I labored with that horn, and got my lips so puckered up andswollen that I went about looking as if I was perpetually trying towhistle. Finally, I took the instrument back to the store and told theman that the horn was defective. What I wanted was a horn with insidesto it; this one had no more music to it than a terra-cotta drainpipe.The man took it in his hand, put it to his lips and played "SweetSpirit, Hear my Prayer," as easily as if he were singing. He said thatwhat I needed was to fix my mouth properly, and he showed me how.

  After working for three more afternoons in the garret the horn at lastmade a sound. But it was not a cheering noise; it reminded me forciblyof the groans uttered by Butterwick's horse when it was dying lastNovember. The harder I blew, the more mournful became the noise, andthat was the only note I could get. When I went down to supper, Mrs.A. asked me if I heard that awful groaning. She said she guessed itcame from Twiddler's cow, for she heard Mrs. Twiddler say yesterdaythat the cow was sick.

  For four weeks I could get nothing out of that horn but blood-curdlinggroans; and, meantime, the people over the way moved to another housebecause our neighborhood was haunted, and three of our hired girlsresigned successively for the same reason.

  Finally, a man whom I consulted told me that "No One to Love" was aneasy tune for beginners; and I made an effort to learn it.

  After three weeks of arduous practice, during which Mrs. A. severaltimes suggested that it was brutal that Twiddler didn't kill thatsuffering cow and put it out of its misery, I conquered the firstthree notes; but there I stuck. I could play "No One to--" and thatwas all. I performed "No One to--" over eight thousand times; andas it seemed unlikely that I would ever learn the whole tune, Idetermined to try the effect of part of it on Mrs. A. About teno'clock one night I crept out to the front of the house and struckup. First, "No One to--" about fifteen or twenty times, then a few ofthose groans, then more of the tune, and so forth. Then Butterwick sethis dog on me, and I suddenly went into the house. Mrs. A. had thechildren in the back room, and she was standing behind the door withmy revolver in her hand. When I entered, she exclaimed,

  "Oh, I'm so glad you've come home! Somebody's been murdering a man inour yard. He uttered the most awful shrieks and cries I ever heard. Iwas dreadfully afraid the murderers would come into the house. It'sperfectly fearful, isn't it?"

  A SCARED FAMILY]

  Then I took the revolver away from her--it was not loaded, and shehad no idea that it would have to be cocked--and went to bed withoutmentioning the horn. I thought perhaps it would be better not to.I sold it the next day; and now if I want music I shall buy a goodhand-organ. I know I can play on that.

  * * * * *

  As music and sculpture are the first of the arts, I may properly referin this chapter to some facts relative to the condition of the latterin the community in which I live. Some time ago there was an auctionout at the place of Mr. Jackson, and a very handsome marble statueof William Penn was knocked down to Mr. Whitaker. He had the statuecarted over to the marble-yard, where he sought an interview withMr. Mix, the owner. He told Mix that he wanted that statue "fixed upsomehow so that 'twould represent one of the heathen gods." He had anidea that Mix might chip the clothes off of Penn and put a lyre in hishand, "so that he might pass muster as Apollo o
r Hercules."

  But Mix said he thought the difficulty would be in wrestling withWilliam's hat. It was a marble hat, with a rim almost big enough for arace-course; and Mix said that although he didn't profess to know muchabout heathen mythology as a general thing, still it struck himthat Hercules in a broad-brimmed hat would attract attention by hissingularity, and might be open to criticism.

  Mr. Whitaker said that what he really wanted with that statue, when hebought it, was to turn it into Venus, and he thought perhaps the hatmight be chiseled up into some kind of a halo around her head.

  But Mix said that he didn't exactly see how he could do that when therim was so curly at the sides. A halo that was curly was just nohalo at all. But, anyway, how was he going to manage about Penn'swaistcoat? It reached almost to his knees, and to attempt to get outa bare-legged Venus with a halo on her head and four cubic feet ofwaistcoat around her middle would ruin his business. It would make thewhole human race smile.

  Then Whitaker said Neptune was a god he always liked, and perhaps Mixcould fix the tails of Penn's coat somehow so that it would look asif the figure was riding on a dolphin; then the hat might be made torepresent seaweed, and a fish-spear could be put in the statue's hand.

  Mix, however, urged that a white marble hat of those dimensions, whencut into seaweed, would be more apt to look as if Neptune was cominghome with a load of hay upon his head; and he said that although arthad made gigantic strides during the past century, and evidently hada brilliant future before it, it had not yet discovered a method bywhich a swallow-tail coat with flaps to the pockets could be turnedinto anything that would look like a dolphin.

  Then Mr. Whitaker wanted to know if Pan wasn't the god that had hornsand split hoofs, with a shaggy look to his legs; for if he was, hewould be willing to have the statue made into Pan, if it could be donewithout too much expense.

  And Mr. Mix said that while nothing would please him more than toproduce such a figure of Pan, and while William Penn's square-toedshoes, probably, might be made into cloven hoofs without a verystrenuous effort, still he hardly felt as if he could fix up thoseknee-breeches to resemble shaggy legs; and as for trying to turn thathat into a pair of horns, Mr. Whitaker might as well talk of emptyingthe Atlantic Ocean through a stomach-pump.

  Thereupon, Mr. Whitaker remarked that he had concluded, on the whole,that it would be better to split the patriarch up the middle and takethe two halves to make a couple of little Cupids, which he could hangin his parlor with a string, so that they would appear to be sportingin air. Perhaps the flap of that hat might be sliced up into wings andglued on the shoulders of the Cupids.

  But Mr. Mix said that while nobody would put himself out more tooblige a friend than he would, still he must say, if his honestopinion was asked, that to attempt to make a Cupid out of one leg andhalf the body of William Penn would be childish, because, if they usedthe half one way, there would be a very small Cupid with one very longleg; and if they used it the other way, he would have to cut Cupid'shead out of the calf of William's leg, and there wasn't room enough,let alone the fact that the knee-joint would give the god of Love theappearance of having a broken back. And as for wings, if the man hadbeen born who could chisel wings out of the flap of a hat, all hewanted was to meet that man, so that he could gaze on him and studyhim. Finally Whitaker suggested that Mix should make the statue intoan angel and sell it for an ornament to a tombstone.

  But Mix said that if he should insult the dead by putting up in thecemetery an angel with a stubby nose and a double-chin, that would lethim out as a manufacturer of sepulchres.

  And so Whitaker sold him the statue for ten dollars, and Mix sawed itup into slabs for marble-top tables. High art doesn't seem to flourishto any large extent in this place.