Chapter THIRTEEN: Among the Amateurs

I.--MR. BARTON'S HIGH NOTE

THE ARTISTIC INFLUENCES OF A CATHEDRAL with a good organist and a capable choir in any town cannot be questioned; and so it is that the concerts which take place with some frequency in Broad-minster and the neighbourhood are usually quite good. The members of the choir are always ready to sing for the many deserving objects that occur to the active minds of the organisers of amateur concerts. One of these ladies, however, made up her mind that people were getting tired of the local tenors, and resolved to introduce a new amateur, whom she had heard sing at Brindlington, for a concert she was getting up for the Ophthalmic Hospital. This gentleman's name was Barton, and he was said to be a very promising tenor of a light quality. He certainly behaved as such when he came to Broadminster to rehearse on the afternoon of the day preceding the entertainment. Dr. Brailey, the organist of the Minster, had kindly consented to play the accompaniments as usual, though his best tenor was to be superseded by the gentleman from Brindlington, and he attended the rehearsal.

Before he had got through the first stanza of the stranger's contribution--a song that the musician had accompanied hundreds of times--he found himself being instructed by Mr. Barton how to play the introduction to the second stanza. Then he found himself told that he was playing too loud: “Keep it down, my dear sir, keep it down--this is not a pianoforte solo,” said the amateur petulently, to the horror of everyone present, with the exception, apparently, of the musician; for Dr. Brailey only smiled and remarked that he hoped he would with practice be able to give the gentleman satisfaction. But even this course of suavity did not seem to produce a good impression upon the amateur: he continued grumbling, winding up by saying--

“Oh, well, I suppose that will have to do,” while he turned his back upon the musician.

But the musician did not seem in the least hurt. He smiled.

He was in his seat at the piano the next evening when the new tenor came forward to sing his song. It occupied, of course, the best place in the programme, and the first stanza came off very well: the high note a bar or two from the close was in itself a feat, but the singer produced it correctly and hung on to it as long as he could, and Dr. Brailey gave him every latitude, not proceeding with the accompaniment until he had quite finished with it.

And then Dr. Brailey did a thing which he alone in the town could do: he raised the key a tone in attacking the second stanza without the singer being aware of it; it was only when he approached the same high note to which he had clung in the first stanza that he began to feel that he was not so much at his ease in forcing it again. He pulled himself together, however, and just managed to touch it--there was no thought of clinging to it now; he touched it and then hurried away from it down the scale, and under covert of the encouraging applause which the singer received the accompanist unostentatiously raised the key again as he dashed into the third stanza. Gratified by his previous success, the tenor went gallantly onward; again he realised that the high note would tax him to the uttermost--he felt that he was straining his voice to touch even a lower note. But what could he do? The copy of the song which he held trembled in his fingers; then he took a quick breath and made a dash for the high note.

He never reached it--his voice broke upon it with the usual comical effect, and the young people in the audience yelled with laughter. A boy scout or two at the back of the hall thought the moment a propitious one for showing how accomplished they were in imitating the everyday sounds of the farmyard; and under such a volley, mingling with the laughter of the choir-boys, one of whom simulated the tremolo of a cat unable to fulfil its engagements in good time, and attempting to produce Chopin's Funeral March from the beginning with a far too meagre orchestra, the singer turned and almost fled from the platform.

It was Dr. Brailey who had to announce to the audience at the start of the second part of the concert that Mr. Barton, owing to a sudden indisposition, would be unable to sing “Let me like a Soldier fall”--the other song that was opposite his name on the programme--but that their old friend, Mr. Stamford, had kindly stepped into the breach and would do his best with that number.

“Loud and prolonged applause,” the _Gazette_ stated, followed the announcement; for Mr. Stamford was the leading tenor of the Minster choir.

Mr. Barton, carrying with him his three encore songs--he had come fully prepared to meet the preposterous demands of an enthusiastic audience--left Broadminster by the night train. And up to this day I believe that he does not know by what diabolic trick on the part of some one he made such a fiasco. He has been heard to declare that no persuasion will ever induce him to sing again in Broadminster, and, so far as I can gather, there is no likelihood of any machinery being set in motion to cause him to break his vow.

I think that the claim which the musical fraternity of Broadminster advance respecting the moral tone of their performances, whether given under the patronage of the Church or not, can certainly be maintained. The Kreutzer Sonata has been placed on the _Index Expurgatorius_ of the Concert Committee ever since Tolstoi wrote a foolish book pointing out whither that composition was likely to lead young people with a tendency toward voluptuousness; and when a lady of a sensitive nature but an open mind submitted to them a song which she had been advised to sing at a forthcoming concert, pointing out where in one line the writer of the words had, she thought, gone a little too far, they considered the matter with closed doors and all females excluded, and decided that her suspicions were but too well founded, and that the offensive line should be altered. This was done, and the honour of Broadminster was preserved intact.

The name of the song was, “It was a Dream,” and the line objected to was--

“We kiss'd beneath the moon's cold beam.”

The shock of this shameless confession was mitigated by the substitution of the word “met” for “kiss'd”--

“We met beneath the moon's cold beam--

It was a dream--it was a dream!”

“Nothing could be happier than the change,” said Lady Birnam. “It left so much to the imagination.”

II.--THE MUSICAL TABLEAUX

Some people have been heard to affirm that there is too much music going on at Broadminster. There may perhaps be some grounds for the assumption. At any rate, it is certain that of late few concerts contributed to solely by local talent have paid their expenses. The opinion seems to be general that when the vocalists can be heard every day of the week free of charge in the Minster, people are unwilling to pay three shillings, two shillings, or even (back seats, unreserved) one shilling for listening to them at a concert.

Some time ago, however, when the annual Coal Fund was started, it was absolutely necessary to get up a concert to make a contribution to this excellent charity; and Lady Birnam undertook the direction of the affair.

After consultation with some friends from a distance who were supposed to have sounded all the depths of schemes for the relief of “deserving objects,” she came to the conclusion that music, illustrated by _tableaux vivants_, offered the greatest lure to the public. Such a combination had never been attempted in the town, and its novelty would make an appeal to the jaded palates of a concert-ridden community.

The plan of illustrating the music was quite a simple one. Certain dramatic songs were selected and scenery painted to form a suitable background for the episode treated in each; an illustrative group was arranged against such a background, and when the curtain was raised after the singing of each stanza it was like looking at the pictorial cover of the song itself.

For instance, in “The Village Blacksmith” the baritone sang the first stanza, up went the curtain, and there appeared on the platform a living picture of the smith, brawny arms and all, in the act of raising a hammer to strike a very red-hot horseshoe. The next stanza sung was that which referred to the children looking in on the smithy, and when it was sung a charming picture was displayed of immaculate children standing around the door, while the smith neglected his work to pat them on the hair. The third tableau showed the interior of a church with the smith in the family pew raising his eyes pathetically as he hears his daughter's voice in the choir.

The idea seemed a very pleasing one, and it had the “draw” of novelty about it. It was found that several good songs lent themselves admirably to illustration by tableaux, and the young men and maidens were pleased to have the chance of posing in aid of a deserving charity. It so happened, however, that Mr. Stamford's mother died only a few days before the date of the first public performance, so that he was forced to remove his name from the programme. He was to sing “She wore a Wreath of Roses,” and the three groups that were arranged for the song were expected to be among the most effective of the evening.

Mr. Stamford was very sorry to relinquish his intention of singing, but he promised the Committee to provide the best substitute possible to get, and this was a friend of his who occupied a position in a bank at Mallingham. He promised to communicate with this gentleman and to tell him what he was to do. He was sure to know “She wore a Wreath of Roses.” The substitute turned up in good time: there was, of course, no need for a rehearsal! Mr. Stamford had told him what he was to do, he said, and he preferred playing his own accompaniment.

The first two sets of the evening were received with every token of approval by the audience: the songs were “The Village Blacksmith” and Pinsuti's “Night Watch”; and then the charming young lady in mid Victorian dress, and with a wreath of pink roses on her dark hair, posed on the daïs against a suitable background. The signal was given to the tenor, who was seated at the piano behind the curtain. He struck a few chords and began in excellent style.

“Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling.”

He had actually got to the end of the first stanza before it dawned upon any responsible person that this was not the “Wreath of Roses,” and before he could be arrested he had declared that

“Faithful below he did his du-i-ty,

And now-ow he's gaw-aw-en aloft.”

Up went the curtain, revealing a refreshing picture of the pretty girl in the muslin dress and the pink wreath, and after the usual interval for applause the curtain fell. Never had the applause been louder: it caused the members of the Committee who were preparing to strangle the singer to lose their heads completely, and the singer was well through the second stanza before they recovered themselves sufficiently to perceive that it was now too late to do anything, and he went on complacently to say that

“Tom never from his word departed----”

and so on through the simple, pathetic stanza; and then the curtain rose and showed the charming young lady in white satin among her bridesmaids at the door of the church, and once again the applause was rapturous.

“Heavens above! what do the fools mean by applauding?” whispered the chairman of the Committee.

“Let them go on if they please,” said some one. “They think that this is Tom Bowling's bride--his fidelity is rewarded, that's the moral illustrated. 'Tom never from his word departed'--there you are, you see. 'His heart was kind and soft,' and the combined virtues have their reward--_vide tableau._”

Then those of the Committee who had some sense of humour hastened into the anteroom to roar with laughter. They were still so engaged when the curtain rose for the third and last time, showing poor Tom Bowling's widow in appropriate garments. Having heard three times that Tom had gone aloft, it would have been ridiculous if any less pathetic scene had been shown to the audience.

The decent interval that elapsed before the applause came showed how deeply affected was the audience.

But the singer at the piano was pounced upon by the Committee and prevented from going on with his song. He protested that he had only sung three verses, and that he was bound to finish it; but the Committee were firm. Not another note would they let him sing, and he retired hurt.

He was questioned in the anteroom as to how on earth he came to sing “Tom Bowling” when Mr. Stamford must have told him that his song was to be “She wore a Wreath of Roses.” Did not Mr. Stamford tell him that? he was asked.

“Oh yes, he said that; but I wasn't going to sing that foolish, sentimental rot. Anybody who knows anything about music will agree with me in thinking that 'Tom Bowling' is worth a dozen of the other, and I'm supposed to sing 'Tom Bowling' rather well.”

This was the explanation given by the visitor, and it was commented on pretty freely by some of the Committee.

But the consensus of opinion among the audience and the critics was in favour of the belief that the tableaux illustrating scenes in the life of Tom Bowling--and his widow--were the most effective of the whole entertainment.

III.--THE DRAMA

It must be obvious to the least experienced that such a community as may be found in an artistic neighbourhood like Broadminster will take kindly to amateur theatricals. There are two dramatic clubs in Broadminster, and their performances are highly appreciated by the members and their friends. The rivalry between the two is quite amicable, for one set of amateurs devote themselves to the lighter forms of the drama and the other to the loftier, and perhaps they might be called without offence the heavier forms. It may be mentioned that the former are the more popular, but those persons who attend the representations of the latter consider themselves the more superior--as indeed they are; otherwise they would have accorded the tribute of a sunny smile to a little bit of dialogue, with accompanying action, which took place in a performance of _King Renes Daughter_ which it was my privilege to attend.

At one place the King and the Moorish physician have had a long scene together, for the physician is certainly inclined to be long-winded. They go out together, and a couple of the courtiers enter the garden and express surprise not to find the others waiting for them. One of them says--

“The King is gone, nor can I see the leech.”

Now, if the amateur had simply said the words, his meaning, I believe, unless I am over-sanguine, would have been understood. But when, after shading his eyes with a hand while he gazed into the distance of stately trees and saying, “The King is gone,” he bent his eyes to the ground and moved a stone or two about with his toe before adding, “Nor can I see the leech,” I am inclined to think he puzzled some of his audience.

I had the curiosity to inquire what was in his mind when he sent his eyes roaming about the ground while he grubbed with his feet, and I learned that he thought it would be quite natural for any one searching for a leech to move the stones about to see if it was concealing itself in the earth.

He was evidently under the impression that the wise physician was habitually followed by a pet leech, or perhaps that he had brought it with him to try what effect it would have upon the Princess's eyes, and that it had escaped through a hole in his waistcoat pocket.