CHAPTER VIII.
Blackmailing.--The proper course to pursue.--Selfish boorishness ofriver-side landowner.--"Notice" boards.--Unchristianlike feelings ofHarris.--How Harris sings a comic song.--A high-class party.--Shamefulconduct of two abandoned young men.--Some useless information.--Georgebuys a banjo.
We stopped under the willows by Kempton Park, and lunched. It is apretty little spot there: a pleasant grass plateau, running along by thewater's edge, and overhung by willows. We had just commenced the thirdcourse--the bread and jam--when a gentleman in shirt-sleeves and a shortpipe 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 toenable us to arrive at a definite conclusion on that point, but that, ifhe assured us on his word as a gentleman that we _were_ trespassing, wewould, without further hesitation, believe it.
He gave us the required assurance, and we thanked him, but he still hungabout, and seemed to be dissatisfied, so we asked him if there wasanything further that we could do for him; and Harris, who is of a chummydisposition, offered him a bit of bread and jam.
I fancy he must have belonged to some society sworn to abstain from breadand jam; for he declined it quite gruffly, as if he were vexed at beingtempted 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 manwhat 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 saidhe would go and consult his master, and then come back and chuck us bothinto the river.
Of course, we never saw him any more, and, of course, all he reallywanted was a shilling. There are a certain number of riverside roughswho make quite an income, during the summer, by slouching about the banksand blackmailing weak-minded noodles in this way. They representthemselves as sent by the proprietor. The proper course to pursue is tooffer your name and address, and leave the owner, if he really hasanything to do with the matter, to summon you, and prove what damage youhave done to his land by sitting down on a bit of it. But the majorityof people are so intensely lazy and timid, that they prefer to encouragethe imposition by giving in to it rather than put an end to it by theexertion of a little firmness.
Where it is really the owners that are to blame, they ought to be shownup. 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 thebackwaters. They drive posts into the bed of the stream, and draw chainsacross from bank to bank, and nail huge notice-boards on every tree. Thesight of those notice-boards rouses every evil instinct in my nature. Ifeel I want to tear each one down, and hammer it over the head of the manwho put it up, until I have killed him, and then I would bury him, andput the board up over the grave as a tombstone.
I mentioned these feelings of mine to Harris, and he said he had themworse than that. He said he not only felt he wanted to kill the man whocaused the board to be put up, but that he should like to slaughter thewhole of his family and all his friends and relations, and then burn downhis house. This seemed to me to be going too far, and I said so toHarris; but he answered:
"Not a bit of it. Serve 'em all jolly well right, and I'd go and singcomic songs on the ruins."
I was vexed to hear Harris go on in this blood-thirsty strain. We neverought to allow our instincts of justice to degenerate into merevindictiveness. It was a long while before I could get Harris to take amore Christian view of the subject, but I succeeded at last, and hepromised 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 understandthe service I had rendered to mankind. It is one of Harris's fixed ideasthat he _can_ sing a comic song; the fixed idea, on the contrary, amongthose of Harris's friends who have heard him try, is that he _can't_ andnever 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 canonly sing a _comic_ song, you know;" and he says it in a tone thatimplies that his singing of _that_, however, is a thing that you ought tohear once, and then die.
"Oh, that _is_ nice," says the hostess. "Do sing one, Mr. Harris;" andHarris gets up, and makes for the piano, with the beaming cheeriness of agenerous-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 overthe house, and crowd into the drawing-room, and sit round, all smirkingin anticipation.
Then Harris begins.
Well, you don't look for much of a voice in a comic song. You don'texpect correct phrasing or vocalization. You don't mind if a man doesfind out, when in the middle of a note, that he is too high, and comesdown with a jerk. You don't bother about time. You don't mind a manbeing two bars in front of the accompaniment, and easing up in the middleof a line to argue it out with the pianist, and then starting the verseafresh. But you do expect the words.
You don't expect a man to never remember more than the first three linesof the first verse, and to keep on repeating these until it is time tobegin the chorus. You don't expect a man to break off in the middle of aline, and snigger, and say, it's very funny, but he's blest if he canthink 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 entirelydifferent part of the song, and break off, without a word of warning, togo back and let you have it then and there. You don't--well, I will justgive you an idea of Harris's comic singing, and then you can judge of itfor yourself.
[Picture: Harris] HARRIS (_standing up in front of piano and addressingthe expectant mob_): "I'm afraid it's a very old thing, you know. Iexpect you all know it, you know. But it's the only thing I know. It'sthe Judge's song out of _Pinafore_--no, I don't mean _Pinafore_--Imean--you know what I mean--the other thing, you know. You must all joinin the chorus, you know."
[_Murmurs of delight and anxiety to join in the chorus_. _Brilliantperformance of prelude to the Judge's song in_ "_Trial by Jury_" _bynervous Pianist_. _Moment arrives for Harris to join in_. _Harris takesno notice of it_. _Nervous pianist commences prelude over again, andHarris_, _commencing singing at the same time_, _dashes off the first twolines of the First Lord's song out of_ "_Pinafore_." _Nervous pianisttries to push on with prelude_, _gives it up_, _and tries to followHarris with accompaniment to Judge's song out of_ "_Trial by Jury_," _findsthat doesn't answer_, _and tries to recollect what he is doing_, _andwhere he is_, _feels his mind giving way_, _and stops short_.]
HARRIS (_with kindly encouragement_): "It's all right. You're doing itvery well, indeed--go on."
NERVOUS PIANIST: "I'm afraid there's a mistake somewhere. What are yousinging?"
HARRIS (_promptly_): "Why the Judge's song out of Trial by Jury. Don'tyou 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 isreally singing_. _Friend finally suggests that it doesn't matter whatHarris is singing so long as Harris gets on and sings it_, _and Harris_,_with an evident sense of injustice rankling inside him_, _requestspianist to begin again_. _Pianist_, _thereupon_, _starts prelude to theAdmiral's song_, _and Harris_, _seizing what he considers to be afavourable 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 unequalcontest and retire
s_; _his place being taken by a stronger-nerved man_.
THE NEW PIANIST (_cheerily_): "Now then, old man, you start off, and I'llfollow. We won't bother about any prelude."
HARRIS (_upon whom the explanation of matters has slowlydawned--laughing_): "By Jove! I beg your pardon. Of course--I've beenmixing up the two songs. It was Jenkins confused me, you know. Nowthen.
[_Singing_; _his voice appearing to come from the cellar_, _andsuggesting 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 overagain, 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 thefire 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 upthe floor--no, dash it--I beg your pardon--funny thing, I can't think ofthat line. And I--and I--Oh, well, we'll get on to the chorus, andchance 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 isannoying a lot of people who never did him any harm. He honestlyimagines that he has given them a treat, and says he will sing anothercomic song after supper.
Speaking of comic songs and parties, reminds me of a rather curiousincident at which I once assisted; which, as it throws much light uponthe inner mental working of human nature in general, ought, I think, tobe recorded in these pages.
We were a fashionable and highly cultured party. We had on our bestclothes, and we talked pretty, and were very happy--all except two youngfellows, students, just returned from Germany, commonplace young men, whoseemed restless and uncomfortable, as if they found the proceedings slow.The truth was, we were too clever for them. Our brilliant but polishedconversation, and our high-class tastes, were beyond them. They were outof 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 discussedphilosophy and ethics. We flirted with graceful dignity. We were evenhumorous--in a high-class way.
Somebody recited a French poem after supper, and we said it wasbeautiful; and then a lady sang a sentimental ballad in Spanish, and itmade 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 heardHerr Slossenn Boschen (who had just arrived, and was then down in thesupper-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 theyknew very well, to sing it. They said it was so funny that, when HerrSlossenn Boschen had sung it once before the German Emperor, he (theGerman Emperor) had had to be carried off to bed.
They said nobody could sing it like Herr Slossenn Boschen; he was sointensely serious all through it that you might fancy he was reciting atragedy, and that, of course, made it all the funnier. They said henever once suggested by his tone or manner that he was singing anythingfunny--that would spoil it. It was his air of seriousness, almost ofpathos, that made it so irresistibly amusing.
We said we yearned to hear it, that we wanted a good laugh; and they wentdownstairs, and fetched Herr Slossenn Boschen.
He appeared to be quite pleased to sing it, for he came up at once, andsat down to the piano without another word.
"Oh, it will amuse you. You will laugh," whispered the two young men, asthey passed through the room, and took up an unobtrusive position behindthe Professor's back.
Herr Slossenn Boschen accompanied himself. The prelude did not suggest acomic song exactly. It was a weird, soulful air. It quite made one'sflesh creep; but we murmured to one another that it was the Germanmethod, and prepared to enjoy it.
I don't understand German myself. I learned it at school, but forgotevery word of it two years after I had left, and have felt much betterever since. Still, I did not want the people there to guess myignorance; so I hit upon what I thought to be rather a good idea. I keptmy 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 littlesnigger all by myself now and then, as if I had seen a bit of humour thathad escaped the others. I considered this particularly artful on mypart.
I noticed, as the song progressed, that a good many other people seemedto have their eye fixed on the two young men, as well as myself. Theseother people also tittered when the young men tittered, and roared whenthe young men roared; and, as the two young men tittered and roared andexploded with laughter pretty continuously all through the song, it wentexceedingly well.
And yet that German Professor did not seem happy. At first, when webegan 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 greetedwith. We thought this very funny: we said his earnest manner was halfthe humour. The slightest hint on his part that he knew how funny he waswould have completely ruined it all. As we continued to laugh, hissurprise gave way to an air of annoyance and indignation, and he scowledfiercely round upon us all (except upon the two young men who, beingbehind him, he could not see). That sent us into convulsions. We toldeach other that it would be the death of us, this thing. The wordsalone, we said, were enough to send us into fits, but added to his mockseriousness--oh, it was too much!
In the last verse, he surpassed himself. He glowered round upon us witha look of such concentrated ferocity that, but for our being forewarnedas 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, ifwe had not known it was a funny song, we might have wept.
He finished amid a perfect shriek of laughter. We said it was thefunniest thing we had ever heard in all our lives. We said how strangeit was that, in the face of things like these, there should be a popularnotion that the Germans hadn't any sense of humour. And we asked theProfessor why he didn't translate the song into English, so that thecommon people could understand it, and hear what a real comic song waslike.
Then Herr Slossenn Boschen got up, and went on awful. He swore at us inGerman (which I should judge to be a singularly effective language forthat purpose), and he danced, and shook his fists, and called us all theEnglish 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 ayoung girl who lived in the Hartz Mountains, and who had given up herlife to save her lover's soul; and he died, and met her spirit in theair; and then, in the last verse, he jilted her spirit, and went on withanother spirit--I'm not quite sure of the details, but it was somethingvery sad, I know. Herr Boschen said he had sung it once before theGerman Emperor, and he (the German Emperor) had sobbed like a littlechild. He (Herr Boschen) said it was generally acknowledged to be one ofthe most tragic and pathetic songs in the German language.
It was a trying situation for us--very trying. There seemed to be noanswer. We looked around for the two young men who had done this thing,but they had left the house in an unostentatious manner immediately afterthe 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 shadyside. We asked the servant for our hats and coats in
whispers, andopened the door for ourselves, and slipped out, and got round the cornerquickly, 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 prettyjust 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 weresteering if they thought it could be done, and they said, oh, yes, theythought so, if I pulled hard. We were just under the little foot-bridgethat crosses it between the two weirs, when they said this, and I bentdown over the sculls, and set myself up, and pulled.
I pulled splendidly. I got well into a steady rhythmical swing. I putmy 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 itwas a pleasure to watch me. At the end of five minutes, I thought weought to be pretty near the weir, and I looked up. We were under thebridge, in exactly the same spot that we were when I began, and therewere those two idiots, injuring themselves by violent laughing. I hadbeen grinding away like mad to keep that boat stuck still under thatbridge. I let other people pull up backwaters against strong streamsnow.
We sculled up to Walton, a rather large place for a riverside town. Aswith all riverside places, only the tiniest corner of it comes down tothe water, so that from the boat you might fancy it was a village of somehalf-dozen houses, all told. Windsor and Abingdon are the only townsbetween London and Oxford that you can really see anything of from thestream. All the others hide round corners, and merely peep at the riverdown one street: my thanks to them for being so considerate, and leavingthe river-banks to woods and fields and water-works.
Even Reading, though it does its best to spoil and sully and make hideousas much of the river as it can reach, is good-natured enough to keep itsugly face a good deal out of sight.
Caesar, of course, had a little place at Walton--a camp, or anentrenchment, or something of that sort. Caesar was a regular up-riverman. Also Queen Elizabeth, she was there, too. You can never get awayfrom that woman, go where you will. Cromwell and Bradshaw (not the guideman, but the King Charles's head man) likewise sojourned here. They musthave been quite a pleasant little party, altogether.
There is an iron "scold's bridle" in Walton Church. They used thesethings in ancient days for curbing women's tongues. They have given upthe attempt now. I suppose iron was getting scarce, and nothing elsewould be strong enough.
There are also tombs of note in the church, and I was afraid I shouldnever get Harris past them; but he didn't seem to think of them, and wewent on. Above the bridge the river winds tremendously. This makes itlook picturesque; but it irritates you from a towing or sculling point ofview, and causes argument between the man who is pulling and the man whois 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, andlived 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 itmyself. The late Duchess of York, who lived at Oatlands, was very fondof 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 ofthem, with a tombstone over each, and an epitaph inscribed thereon.
Well, I dare say they deserve it quite as much as the average Christiandoes.
At "Corway Stakes"--the first bend above Walton Bridge--was fought abattle between Caesar and Cassivelaunus. Cassivelaunus had prepared theriver for Caesar, by planting it full of stakes (and had, no doubt, putup a notice-board). But Caesar crossed in spite of this. You couldn'tchoke Caesar off that river. He is the sort of man we want round thebackwaters now.
Halliford and Shepperton are both pretty little spots where they touchthe river; but there is nothing remarkable about either of them. Thereis a tomb in Shepperton churchyard, however, with a poem on it, and I wasnervous lest Harris should want to get out and fool round it. I saw himfix 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 theexcitement of recovering that, and his indignation at my clumsiness, heforgot all about his beloved graves.
At Weybridge, the Wey (a pretty little stream, navigable for small boatsup to Guildford, and one which I have always been making up my mind toexplore, and never have), the Bourne, and the Basingstoke Canal all enterthe Thames together. The lock is just opposite the town, and the firstthing that we saw, when we came in view of it, was George's blazer on oneof the lock gates, closer inspection showing that George was inside it.
Montmorency set up a furious barking, I shrieked, Harris roared; Georgewaved his hat, and yelled back. The lock-keeper rushed out with a drag,under the impression that somebody had fallen into the lock, and appearedannoyed at finding that no one had.
George had rather a curious oilskin-covered parcel in his hand. It wasround and flat at one end, with a long straight handle sticking out ofit.
"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; andI've got the instruction book!"
[Picture: George and the banjo]
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