Lazy Thoughts of a Lazy Girl Part 6

We put up fences and water jumps, all of which--with the aid of sugar again--they were able to master in time. I think they used to get quite excited themselves at last. Our old gardener, who used to watch the races with great interest, told me once that he "'ad seen one of the little dawgs a'jumpin' backwards and forwards over that 'ere bit of wood (the highest and most perilous jump), and a'practisin' by hisself!" He _was_ a very clever "little dawg," but I don't think he ever reached such a pitch of intelligence as to practice "by hisself."

We had to fill up the fences down to the ground, or, to save themselves the trouble of getting over, they would run under or scramble through in some extraordinary fashion, which in the end took much the most time and pains. Humanity again! Lazy people always take the most trouble!

When I was a little girl I had every morning to learn and repeat to my governess three verses from a French Bible. I thought I had hit upon an easy way of getting over this, and of reducing the quant.i.ty I had to commit to memory; so I chose the cx.x.xvi. Psalm, in which you will find, if you care to look it up (I have just had to do the same to find out the number, not being by any means a living concordance to the Psalms!)--you will find that half of each verse is composed of the words, "For His mercy endureth for ever." Ingenuity wasted! Trouble increased! Not one whit the better off was I. Until that Psalm was finished I had to learn six verses instead of three. I retired anything but satisfied, and heartily wishing I had left that Psalm alone. It was very mean of my governess all the same. She should better have appreciated the craftiness of her pupil. But, poor things, they have to be very sharp and always on the look-out, or the children will take them in; they will not let any opportunity escape them, and, indeed, I pity anyone who has the care of these unraveled Sphinxes, these uncut Gordian knots.

CHAPTER X.

ON CONCERTS.

I am not thinking about the Albert Hall Concerts, where the highest in the musical world go time after time, always singing the same songs.

Neither am I thinking of "Monday Pops," and purely cla.s.sical concerts, to which at least half the audience listens with closed eyes and thoughts somewhere in dreamland. They like to be thought musical; they know they ought to appreciate _such_ renderings of _such_ compositions; and after all, when they describe "the treat they had!

such a perfect touch, my dear! and the execution!!--" no one knows they have never heard a note, so what does their inattention matter.

They have been seen there, and that is all they care about.

No, my thoughts take a much lower range. They are intent on only amateur productions, from penny readings upwards, to those superintended by the _elite_ of the neighborhood, when the seats rise in price to five shillings each.

They are such nice cheery entertainments, so much life, such a great deal of energy about them! You are called on by four separate people to take tickets. In desperation you have to yield at last; paying extra for having your seat reserved, or else you must start half-an-hour beforehand, and scramble in with the crowd. There is generally a series of them too, and you are obliged to go to them all.

They are so considerate, these concert-makers, they would not allow you to miss one for worlds.

There is a great deal of novelty and variety about the artists themselves. All the musical members in the neighborhood are routed out, and each is persuaded to contribute to the public pleasure--by the way, there is never very much persuasion needed. It is such a treat to listen to people you know, and whom you have heard perform dozens and dozens of times before in every drawing-room in the place.

At least, you know what to expect. You recognize each song, each piece. You wait in suspense until Miss. Brown has pa.s.sed her high A--always half a tone too flat. You take it as a matter of course that Mr. Black--the first violinist in the place--after tuning up for ten minutes, will break a string directly he begins to play. I should have thought he would be pretty well used to it by now, but he never gets in tune again for the rest of the evening. You would be quite disappointed if Mrs. Green ever concluded her most finished and spirited pianoforte solo on the right chord.

These concerts always begin with a pianoforte solo, and the performers ought to feel very flattered at the way in which they are received.

We, the audience, regard them no more than we do the mounted policemen in the Lord Mayor's Show. They are not part of the procession. They are only meant to clear the way and let us know that the concert is going to begin, and then we must leave off our chatter. Naturally, we make the most of our time, and try to get all our talking done at once. In fact, we are so taken up with what we are saying that we actually forget to applaud when the performance is over.

After the introduction in this form, the chief moving spirit of the entertainment comes forward, and, after bowing right and left, stammers out (the chief moving spirit is never a good speaker) that he much regrets that, on account of Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith, and Miss. Blank having been prevented by illness from turning up, he is afraid there will be a little change in the programme. Now as Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith, and Miss. Blank are down for seven things between them there is likely to be a very great change in the programme. Why is it that people never know they cannot come until the last moment, I wonder? Perhaps they think that the more often they disappoint the more they emulate the "stars" in the musical world. Only the force of example, you see.

And, after all, what does it matter? The other performers are most kind and sympathetic, and ready to help all they can. They are delighted to sing four times each instead of twice. Selfish people!

they have no consideration for the audience, they only think of their own enjoyment!

There is the youth who looks as if he were going to favor us with a sweet treble. Lo, and behold! he opens his mouth, and out comes a loud double ba.s.s voice that seems to spring somewhere from the region of his boots. It is not a pretty sound by any means.

There is the smiling, simpering girl who comes forward gorgeously arrayed in light blue satin. She chooses a song, all trills and little scales, running up and down, shaking at last upon a high note for nearly two minutes, and then coming down with a rush. This brings down the house. We applaud l.u.s.tily; we begin the encoring business here, which, having once started, we do not intend to give up again. We like to get as much as we can for our money, we Britons. She keeps us waiting some time, too--taking a little refreshment in between, perhaps--and then comes back beaming with smiles and, under the impression that she is a second Patti, shrieks out in plaintive tones, "Home, sweet home!" A cat might as well try to emulate a thrush! And we never find it "sweet" either. Never do you dislike "Home" more than when you hear it sung thus.

There is the sentimental man, who gets into position while the introduction to his song is being played. He sticks his finger down his collar (the object of which I can never understand), pulls both cuffs out, stretches out his music a yard or two in front of him and gazes above the audience with a hungry yearning look. His is always a love song, an unhappy love song, that should bring tears to our eyes, only we are so taken up with his expression, and the fear that he is going to die or have a fit, that we have no time for weeping. True to our instincts, he is greeted with deafening applause, and coming back, he generously treats us to the last verse over again.

Everyone is not so fortunate in receiving an encore, though. It depends on how well they are known, not on their desserts.

The newcomer in the neighborhood tries her hardest and does her best, but as we have never seen her before we scarcely take the trouble to applaud her, which must be rather disappointing, especially when her mother is sitting among the audience with the encore song on her lap, ready to hand it up.

The best exhibition of all is made by the flutist. He is the only one who plays that instrument for miles round, and so the swagger with which he steps on to the platform is perhaps excusable.

How anyone _can_ play it I do not know. It is such a singularly unbecoming instrument. But the wretched owner never seems to think so.

When he once commences he gives us a good dose of it. We begin to think he is going on all night. Suddenly there comes a pause, and applause is started at once, we being only too delighted to make a little noise on our own account. But no--it is a mistake, a delusion, after all. The pause was only an interval between an Andante and a Scherzo; and, with a bland smile at his ovation, on he goes again for another quarter of an hour. We--the audience--are disappointed, we feel we have been tricked, and we therefore sulk for a season. But the Scherzo is so long, it gives us time to get over our ill-humor, though we are mutually resolved that we will not have him back again. Vain hope! From the far end of the room comes thundering applause, which never dies away until the talented flutist appears on the platform again. We find out afterwards that he treats the whole of his establishment to the cheap seats; so, of course, poor things, we cannot blame them. They are only earning their wages. Perhaps they are presented with an extra shilling each when their master returns home.

It is a curious thing how we all like applauding and making a noise.

If you notice, at organ recitals in the Church we feel quite uncomfortable. We think we ought to do something at the conclusion of the pieces; so, as we may not clap our hands, we all give a little rustle and cough. This is to show our approbation. _Every_one coughs.

It is astonishing how many people have bad colds. For my part I think it is a pity applause is not allowed. It is infinitely preferable to the coughing at any rate.

Of course the comic singer goes down best. He is called back three, sometimes four times. The schoolboys behind grow excited, and greet him with a whistle that would do credit to the "G.o.ds." This is too much for decently-clad minds, anything so profane as that whistle. The clergyman, who is in the chair (the proceeds are always to be devoted to some charitable object), rises and insists "that if that most objectionable noise does not cease, the boys will have to be turned out."

Where the "objectionable" comes in I cannot think. The boys are very clever to be able to do it. I have often tried it, and cannot succeed, and so conclude it must be a difficult accomplishment. They stick about four fingers in their mouths, and thereby make quite a different sound to any ordinary whistle. However, it is no wonder the chairman discourages it. When he was reading a few minutes before, reading out some dry little tale with a moral, in which the humorous parts were the heaviest, no encore whistle was accorded him. He was clapped loudly, of course--is he not one of the chief men in the parish? But no one wished to hear him read again, so we stopped our applause just in time to prevent him from re-appearing.

We go home glad at heart, and two mornings later read an account of the evening's performance in the local paper.

We find there a few statements which agree with our own feelings.

They say that "Mr. Jones sang in a pure and cultured manner, and deserves special attention for his sweet tenor voice and the refinement of the sentiment in his songs" (whatever that may mean!) "Mr. Smith played two violin solos with remarkable precision of touch and with the greatest ease;" while "Miss. Blank, with a good contralto, was all that could be desired in both her songs!" They were none of them there, but that does not matter. They were praised up more than anyone else, which must be very discouraging to those who _did_ perform. But on account of their non-appearance alone we feel they deserve some approbation, and so do not grudge it them. It is of no consequence to a newspaper reporter who is there and who is not. He takes the programme, ticks off the names, and writes his remarks and criticisms just as he likes. It would be wiser, all the same, on his part, if he found out the absentees, for otherwise his little hints rather lose their effect.

He writes that this one wants a little "animation," that one "sings out of tune." Miss So-and-So plays the piano "with faultless manipulation, the only drawback being a slight preponderance of pedal," and so on. He generally has as good an ear for music as a parish priest who only knew two tunes: one of which was "G.o.d save the Queen," and the other wasn't. And once, when a bra.s.s band was playing a selection outside the vicarage, he went on to his balcony, hat in hand, and waved it vigorously as he commenced to sing the first line of "G.o.d save the Queen."

Well, it does not matter after all. The only object is to appear learned, and to use long words. If the artists do not like being ignorantly criticized they must forbear to appear in public, a result which would incline us to go and shake hands with the reporters all round in the exuberance of our grat.i.tude.

CHAPTER XI.

ON DANCING.

I was looking through a "Querist Alb.u.m" the other day; one of those dreadful confession books in which you are required to answer the most absurd questions. Dreadful indeed they are to write in, but not altogether uninteresting to peruse, though the interest comes not so much in the answers themselves as in the manner in which they are written.

Some go in for it seriously, and describe their inmost feelings on the pages; some take a witty strain, and put down the most ridiculous things they can think of; while others write just what comes first.

Some are such hypocrites, too. Here is a man who describes his wife as his ideal woman; and when we know that he scarcely ever addresses a civil word to the poor little woman, his admission is, to say the least of it, amusing.

"Have you ever been in love? and if so, how often?" This is one of the questions. The answers to it are of doubtful veracity. All the single ladies reply "Never!" underlining the word three times. "Yes, only once," is the statement of the married ones. According to the Querist Alb.u.m, "The course of true love _always_ runs smooth." No one seems to be attacked by Cupid but they must immediately marry the object of their choice, and "all goes merrily as a marriage bell." The men, on the contrary, like to appear somewhat inflammable. It is generally the masculine writers who adopt the sprightly key. Twenty--forty--thousands of times they admit falling in love. Such one-sided affairs they must have been, too; for the girls, according to their own confessions, never reciprocated any attachment until their rightful lords and masters appeared on the scene. I am afraid we must be a very hard-hearted race!

But it is the question relating to your idea of "the greatest earthly happiness" that struck me most. "Never being called in the morning,"

was one lazy person's reply. "To write M.P. after my name," was the ambition of another. "Married life," wrote the bride on the completion of her honeymoon. Ah, little bride, you have been married some years now. Are your ideas still the same, I wonder? "A good partner, a good floor, and good music," said a fourth, and it is this one that has my entire sympathy. I agree with her. It is my idea also of "the greatest earthly happiness." I do not require much, you see. These are not very difficult things to procure now-a-days; and yet I am often taunted with my love of dancing. If I express disapproval of a man, "I suppose he can't dance," they say with a sneer.

Now though that accomplishment is a necessity in a ball-room, I do _not_ consider it indispensable in a husband. Unfortunately you cannot dance through life. I wish you could for many reasons. A continual change of partners, for instance, would it not be refreshing? You would scarcely have time to grow tired of them. And how much more polite our husbands would be if they thought we were only fleeting joys! What am I saying? I am shocking everyone I am afraid; the little matron who advocates married life, the newly-made brides whose ideal men are realized in their husbands--I am shocking them all! I humbly plead forgiveness. You see, I am not married myself. I can only give my impressions as a looker-on, and, as Thackeray says, "One is bound to speak the truth as far as one knows it, and a deal of disagreeable matter must come out in the course of such an undertaking."

But dancing _is_ indispensable in a ball-room. If a man cannot dance he should stay away, and not make an object of himself. Unfortunately, so many think they excel in the art when they have not the least idea of it. Again, with girls, dancing (in a ball-room only, of course) comes before charm of manner, before wit, even before beauty. I know girls, absolutely plain, with not a word to say for themselves, who dance every dance, while the walls of the room are lined with pretty faces, and dismal-looking enough they are too, which is very foolish of them. They should have too much pride to show their discomfiture.

Men have so much the best of it at dances--so everybody says. I am afraid I do not agree. I would not change our positions for anything.

After all, a girl can nearly always dance with anyone she likes, and pick and choose as well as the men--provided, of course, that she is an adept on the "light fantastic toe" herself.

And think, on the other hand, what men go through! Reverse the order of things, as you are supposed to do at leap year dances--which system, however, is never properly carried out. But suppose you go up to a man and ask him for a dance, and he tells you with a smile that "he is very sorry, but really he has not one left." Suppose that the next minute you see him give three to another girl, would you speak to that man ever again? _Never!_ And yet this is what they constantly endure and, what is more, forgive.

After all, if you a.n.a.lyze it, what an absurd thing dancing is. Close your ears to the music and look around you when a ball is at its height. What motive, you foolishly wonder, could induce all these people--who are supposed to possess an average amount of brains--to a.s.semble together to clasp each other round the waist, twirl round and round up and down the room, suddenly stop, and hurry one after another outside the dancing hall, seeking dark corners, secret retreats, anywhere away from the eyes of other men? "Ah, what a mad world it is, my masters!"

How our grandmothers exclaim at the present mode of dancing!--they who used to consider round dances almost improper. How the programmes must astonish them, too; those engagement cards that did not exist fifty years ago, and in their infancy were quite content to bear only two or three names on their paper countenances. But now times have changed, and as they grow older they become most greedy little cards. They are not only not content with being scribbled all over, but require two names on the top of one another, and thus causing dissensions to ensue.

There is a great deal of art in making up a programme. It is a mistake to be full up before you arrive. Someone may come whom you did not expect, and then you have no dance to give him. Arrangement of a programme requires two or three seasons' practice. There are the duty dances to be got through first; put them up early, so that they shall be soon over, and then you have the good ones at the end to look forward to.