By G.B. Shaw
I celebrated my fortieth birthday by one of the amateur theatrical performances for which my house at Beckenham1 is famous. The piece, written, as usual, by myself, was a fairy play in three acts; and the plot turned upon the possession of a magic horn by the hero, a young Persian prince. My works are so well known that it is unnecessary to describe the action minutely. I need only remind the reader that an important feature in the second act is the interruption of a festival by the sound of the horn, blown by the Prince in the heart of a loadstone mountain in which he has been entombed by a malignant fairy. I had engaged a cornist from the band of my regiment to blow the horn; and it was arranged that he should place himself not upon the stage, but downstairs in the hall, so that the required effect of extreme distance should be produced.
The entertainment began pleasantly. Some natural disappointment was felt when it became known that I was not to act; but my guests excused me with perfect good humour when I pleaded my double duty as host and stage manager. The best seat in the auditorium was occupied by the beautiful Linda Fitznightingale. The next chair, which I had intended for myself, had been taken (rather coolly) by Porcharlester of the 12th, a young man of amiable disposition, and of some musical talent, which enables him to make the most of a somewhat effeminate baritone voice which he is weak enough to put forward as a tenor.
As Linda’s taste for music approached fanaticism, Porcharlester’s single accomplishment gave him, in her eyes, an advantage over men of more solid parts and mature age. I resolved to interrupt their conversation as soon as I was at leisure. It was some time before this occurred; for I make it a rule to see for myself that everything needed at the performances in my house is at hand in its proper place. At last Miss Waterloo, who enacted the heroine, complained that my anxiety made her nervous, and begged me to go to the front and rest myself. I complied willingly, and hastened to the side of Linda. As I approached, Porcharlester rose, saying, “I am going to take a peep behind: that is, if non-performers may be admitted.”
“Oh, certainly,” I said, glad to be rid of him. “But pray do not meddle with anything. The slightest hitch – “
“All right,” he said, interrupting me. “I know how fidgety you are. I will keep my hands in my pockets all the time.”
“You should not allow him to be disrespectful to you, Colonel Green,” said Linda, when he was gone. “And I feel sure he will do no end of mischief behind the scenes.”
“Boys will be boys,” I replied. “Porcharlester’s manner is just the same to General Johnston, who is quite an old man. How are your musical studies progressing?”
“I am full of Schubert just now. Oh, Colonel Green, do you know Schubert’s serenade?”
“Ah! A charming thing. It is something like this, I think. Diddledi-dum, deediddledi-dum, deedum, deediddledyday.”
“Yes, it’s a little like that. Does Mr Porcharlester sing it?”
“He tries to sing it. But he only appears to advantage when he sings trivial music. In nothing that demands serious sentiment, depth of feeling, matured sympathy, as it were – “
“Yes, yes. I know you think Mr Porcharlester flippant. Do you like the serenade?”
“Hm! well, the fact is – Do you like it?”
“I love it. I dream of it. I have lived on it for the last three days.”
“I must confess that it has always struck me as being a singularly beautiful piece of music. I hope to have the pleasure of hearing justice done to it by your voice when our little play is over.”
“I sing! Oh, I dare not! Ah! here is Mr Porcharlester. I will make him promise to sing it for us.”
“Green,” said Porcharlester with ill-bred jocosity: “I don’t wish to disturb you groundlessly, but the fellow who is to play the magic horn hasn’t turned up.”
“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “I ordered him for half-past seven sharp. If he fails, the play will be spoilt.”
I excused myself briefly to Linda, and hurried to the hall. The horn was there, on the table. Porcharlester had resorted to an infamous trick to get rid of me. I was about to return and demand an explanation, when it occurred to me that, after all, the bandsman might have left his instrument there at the morning rehearsal, and had perhaps not come. But a servant whom I called told me that the man had arrived with military punctuality at half-past seven, and had, according to my orders, been shown into the supper room joining the hall, and left there with a glass of wine and a sandwich. Porcharlester, then, had deceived me. As the servant returned to his duties, leaving me alone and angry in the hall, my attention was curiously arrested by the gleaming brass curves of the instrument on the table. Amid the inanimate objects around me the horn seemed silent and motionless in a way apart, as though, pregnant with dreadful sound, it were consciously biding its time for utterance. I stole to the table, and cautiously touched one of the valves with my forefinger. After a moment I ventured to press it down. It clicked. At a sound in the supper room I started back guiltily. Then the prompter’s bell tinkled. It was the signal for the cornist to prepare for his cue. I awaited the appearance of the bandsman with some shame, hoping that he would not discover that I had been childishly meddling with his instrument. But he did not come. My anxiety increased: I hurried into the supper room. There, at the head of the table, sat the soldier, fast asleep. Before him were five decanters empty. I seized his shoulder and shook him violently. He grunted, made a drunken blow at me, and relapsed into insensibility.
Swearing, in my anger, to have him shot for his mutiny, I rushed back to the hall. The bell rang again. This second bell was for the horn to sound. The stage was waiting. In that extremity I saw but one way to save the piece from failure. I snatched up the instrument, put the smaller end into my mouth, and puffed vigorously through it. Waste of breath! not a sound responded. I became faint with my exertions, and the polished brass slipped through my clammy hands. The bell again urgently broke the ruinous silence. Then I grasped the horn like a vice, inflated my lungs, jammed the mouthpiece against my lips and set my teeth until it nearly cut me; and spat fiercely into it. The result was a titanic blast. My ears received a deafening shock; the lamp glasses whirred, the hats of my visitors rained from their pegs; and I pressed my bursting temples between my palms as the soldier reeled out, pale as though the last trumpet had roused him, and confronted the throng of amazed guests who appeared on the stairs.
***
For the next three months I studied the art of horn-blowing under the direction of an adept. He worried me by his lower middle class manners and his wearisome trick of repeating that the ‘orn, as he called it, resembled the human voice more than any other instrument; and I was persevering, in spite of some remonstrances from the neighbours. At last I ventured to ask him whether he considered me sufficiently advanced to play a solo in private for a friend.
“Well, Colonel,” he said, “I tell you the truth, you havnt a born lip for it: at least, not yet. Then, you see, you blow so tremenjous. If youll believe me, sir, it dont need all the muscle you put into it: it spoils the tone. What was you thinking of playing for your friend?”
“Something that you must teach me. Schubert’s serenade.”
He stared at me, and shook his head. “It aint written for the hinstrument, sir,” she said. “Youll never play it.”
“The first time I play it through without a mistake, I will give you five guineas, besides our regular terms.”
This overcame his doubts. I found the execution of the serenade, even after diligent practice, uncertain and very difficult. But I succeeded at last.
“If I was you, Colonel,” said my instructor, as he pocketed the five guineas, “I’d keep that tune to myself, and play summat simpler for my friends. You can play it well enough here after half an hour’s exercise, but when I’m not at your elbow, youll find it wont come so steady.”
I made light of this hint, the prudence of which I now fully recognise. But at that time I was bent on a long cherished project of serenading Linda. Her house, near the northern end of Park Lane, was favourably situated for the purpose; and I had already bribed a servant to admit me to the small pleasure ground that lay between the house and the roadway. Late in June, I learned that she intended to repose for an evening from the fatigues of society. This was my opportunity. At nine o’clock I placed my horn in a travelling bag, and drove to the Marble Arch, where I alighted and walked to my destination. I was arrested by the voice of Porcharlester calling, “Hallo, Colonel!” As I did not wish to be questioned, I thought it best to forestall by asking whither he was bound.
“I am going to see Linda,” he replied. “She contrived to let me know last night that she would be alone all this evening. I don’t mind telling you these things, Colonel: you are a man of honour, and you know how good she is. I adore her. If I could only be certain that it is myself, and not merely my voice that she likes, I should be the happiest man in England.”
“I am quite sure that it cannot be your voice,” I said.
“Thank you,” he exclaimed, grasping my hand, “it’s very kind of you to say so; but I hardly dare flatter myself that you are right. It almost chokes me to look at her. Do you know I have never had the pluck to sing that serenade of Schubert’s since she told me it was a favourite of hers?”
“Why? Does she not like your singing of it?”
“I tell you I have never ventured to sing it before her, though she is always at me for it. I am half jealous of that confounded tune. But I would do anything to please her; and I am going to surprise her with it tomorrow at Mrs Locksly Hall’s. I have been taking lessons and working like a dog to be able to sing it in really first-rate style. If you meet her, mind you don’t breathe a word of this. It is to be a surprise.”
“I have no doubt you will startle her,” I said, exulting at the thought that he would be a day too late. I knew that it would take a finer voice than his to bear comparison with the melancholy sweetness, the somber menace, the self-contained power with which the instrument I carried would respond to a skilful performer. We parted, and I saw him enter the house of Linda. A few minutes later, I was in the garden, looking up at them from my place in the shadow as they sat near the open window. Their conversation did not reach me: I thought he would never go. The night was a little cold, and the ground was damp. Ten o’clock struck – a quarter past – half past – I almost resolved to go home. Had not the tedium been relieved by some pieces which she played on the pianoforte, I could not have held out. At last they rose, and I was now able to distinguish their words.
“Yes,” she said, “it is time for you to go.” How heartily I agreed with her! “But you might have sung the serenade for me. I have played three times for you.”
“I have a frightful cold,” he said. “I really cannot. Goodnight.”
“What nonsense! You have not the least symptom of a cold. No matter: I will never ask you again. Goodnight, Mr Porcharlester.”
“Do not be savage with me,” he said. “You shall hear me sing it sooner than you think, perhaps.”
“Ah! you say that very significantly. Sooner than I think! If you are preparing a surprise for me, I will forgive you. I shall see you at Mrs Locksly Hall’s tomorrow, I hope.”
He assented, and hurried away, fearful, I suppose, lest he should betray his plan. When he was gone, she came to the window, and looked out at the stars. Gazing at her, I forgot my impatience: my teeth ceased to chatter. I took the horn from my travelling bag. She sighed, closed the window, and drew a white blind. The sight of her hand alone as she did so would have inspired me to excel all my previous efforts. She seated herself so that I could see the shadow of her figure in profile. My hour had come. Park Lane was nearly still: the traffic in Oxford Street was too distant to be distracting.
I began. At the first note I saw her start and listen. When the completed phrase revealed to her what air I was playing, she laid down her book. The mouthpiece of my instrument was like ice; and my lips were stiff and chilly, so that in spite of my utmost care I was interrupted more than once by those uncouth guggling sounds which the best cornists cannot always avoid. Nevertheless, considering that I was cold and very nervous, I succeeded fairly well. Gaining confidence as I went on, I partly atoned for the imperfection of the beginning by playing the concluding bars with commanding sonority, and even achieving a tolerable shake on the penultimate note.
An encouraging cheer from the street as I finished, showed me that a crowd was collected there, and that immediate flight was out of the question. I replaced the horn in my bag, and made ready to go when the mob should disperse. Meanwhile I gazed at the shadow on the blind. She was writing now. Could she, I think, be writing to me? She rose, and the shadow overspread the window so that I could no longer distinguish her movements. I heard a bell ring. A minute later the door of the house opened. I retreated behind an aloe tub; but on recognizing the servant whom I had bribed, I whistled softly to him. He came towards me with a letter in his hand. My heart beat strongly as I saw it.
“All right, sir,” he said. “Miss Linda told me to give you this; but you are not to open it, if you please, until you get home.”
“Then she knew who I was,” I said eagerly.
“I suppose so, sir. When I heard he bell, I took care to answer it myself. Then she says to me, “You’ll find a gentleman somewhere in the pleasure ground. Give him this note; and beg him to go home at once. He is not to read it here.”
“Is there any crowd outside?”
“All gone now, sir. Thank you, sir. Goodnight, sir.”
I ran all the way to Hamilton Place, where I got into a hansom. Ten minutes afterwards I was in my study, opening the letter with unsteady hands. It was not enclosed in an envelope, but folded in three, with a corner turned down. I opened it and read,