Three men in a boat (to say nothing of the dog)

“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