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The Queen's Scarlet, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 17. Quavering Among Crotchets |
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_ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. QUAVERING AMONG CROTCHETS "It is very horrid in some things," thought Dick Smithson as he would think of his position at night in the comparative silence of his narrow bed--comparative silence, for each of his brother bandsmen had a habit of performing nocturnes on nasal instruments in a way not pleasing to a weary, sleepless person--"very horrid." For so many things jarred: the want of privacy, the common ways of his companions, the roughness of the food, and the annoyances--petty annoyances--he had to submit to from the little bandmaster. But Dick did not repent. He was Dick now--Dick Smithson--even to himself; and after the first few days, far from repenting the wild step he had taken, he rejoiced in the calm rest which seemed to have come over him. There was no one to accuse him of dishonourableness, to remind him of the death of his cousin, no relations to meet who would reproach him for all that he had done. There was ease at night, so little time for thought. The military routine kept him busy; and as he had embraced this life, he worked like a slave to master his duties, and the time rapidly glided by. There was always a smile for him whenever he met the big sergeant, while the others he had encountered that first day were ready with a friendly nod. There was a band practice one afternoon, and Dick took his place with the rest, listening to the men, who, whatever their instrument, began to run through difficult bits regardless of their neighbours; but there was only one person present whom this chaos of wild sounds affected--to wit, the recruit, who listened with an intense longing to ram his fingers in his ears, as one man began to cut and slash out notes from the trombone in the key of G; while another practised difficult runs in E flat upon the clarionet, another ran through a strain in F upon the cornet, and the hautbois-performer, the bassoon, the contra-bass, and the keyed-trumpet toiled away in major, minor, flat, sharp, or in whatever key his music might be set. The bewildering, maddening row--it deserved no other term--went on till the bandmaster, looking mildly important in his spectacles, entered the room, walked up to his stand--across which a baton had been laid--gave a sharp tap, and there was instant silence, broken, however, by sundry dull pops, as men drew the crooks out of their brass instruments, and drained away the condensed breath. "We'll try that march from _Forst_ again," said the bandmaster; and the men began to turn over the leaves of their music, while others adjusted the cards ready upon their brass instruments. Dick stood by the regular flute-player, who, rather grudgingly, made room at his tall stand; and then, as the bandmaster called attention with a fresh tap of the baton and opened the score, the flautist said: "Beg pardon, Mr Wilkins, sir; here's the recruit. Is he to stand with me?" Dick waited, curious to hear what followed, and incensed at what did; for, when the bandmaster entered, he had glanced sharply at the now bandsman, and then passed on. "Eh! what recruit?" said the little leader, looking up and giving a start as he made believe to see Dick for the first time. "Oh, that young man? Well, perhaps he had better stand by you, and then he may pick up what he can. This is a difficult piece." "I know Gounod's work pretty well, sir," said Dick, quietly. "Oh, do you!" said the bandmaster, with a little jerky laugh, like that of a spiteful woman. "Now, then; what's your name, sir?" "Smithson," said Dick, feeling as if he would like to kick the mean-spirited little cad. "Oh, Smithson, eh?--son of the great Smith!" He looked round, twinkling, for a laugh to follow what he meant for a joke; and the obsequious bandsmen uttered a sniggering kind of concreted grin, followed instantly by a loud-toned sonorous _Phoomp_! from the huge bell-mouth of the contra-bass. "What do you mean by that, Banks?" cried the bandmaster, as soon as there was silence, for the men had burst into a loud and general roar. "Beg pardon, sir; I was listening, sir," said the offender. "It was only one of those deep notes I was doubtful about." "Then don't you let it occur again, sir! It was an excuse for a marked show of disrespect, and I won't have it! Here is the colonel complaining about the inefficiency of our band, and people are saying that the 310th is far better--which is a lie, a ridiculous lie--but I want to know how our band is to become efficient if there is not more discipline maintained?" "Beg pardon, sir?" "Silence, sir! Attend to what I say! I have long noted a want of attention among the men--a mutinous spirit--and I won't allow it! While I'm bandmaster, I'll be treated with proper respect; and, mark this, our band shall be efficient, and the members shall practise till they are!" He tapped the music-stand sharply, raised his baton, and then went on talking. "Here, you!" he cried. "Smithson, didn't you say?" "Yes, sir." "What did you say?" "Smithson, sir." "How dare you!" yelled the bandmaster, scarlet now with passion, for the men burst out laughing again. "Don't you try to crack your miserable, contemptible jokes on me, sir!" "That was no joke, sir," said Dick. "No, sir, it was not!" said the bandmaster, sharply. "You'll find jokes dangerous things to crack here, sir!" There was a murmur of acquiescence, and the little man smiled approval. "Thought you were alluding to my name, sir," said Dick, apologetically. "Indeed, sir?" said the bandmaster, sarcastically. "Not such an attractive name that I would care to allude to it." "Oh, you meant about the music of _Faust_, sir?" said Dick, pronouncing the name of the opera as a German would--something like _Fowst_. "The music of what?" said the bandmaster, screwing up his face as if the sound were unpleasant to his ears. "Gounod's opera, sir, I said. I know it pretty well." "Dear me! you seem to know everything 'pretty well;' perhaps you know how to conduct 'pretty well,' and would like to take my stick and lead?" Dick looked down at the music, but made no reply, though the bandmaster waited for a few moments. "Then I suppose I may go on. Of course, the colonel has a right to interfere, though I was not aware that he was a musician; and I think I have had some little experience in musical matters, and if I had proper material I could produce as good results as any man in the service; but, hampered as I am by incompetents, and interfered with in matters of which I ought to be the best judge, I don't know what can be expected, I'm sure.--The March from _Forst_." There was a sharp tapping of the baton, and Dick drew back to go and sit down, when the spectacles glistened in his direction again. "Keep your place, sir," shouted the little tyrant. "You can, as you are here, try the flute part. Be careful!" Dick felt a singing in his ears, and his fellow-flautist scowled. Then there was a flourish of the leader's stick in the air, and the brass instruments set off in the familiar march, every man blowing his loudest, and keeping very fair, well-marked time, to the end of the strain, to be followed by the _piano_ movement, in which the flutes took the lead, with hautbois and clarionet, of course properly supported by the bass. There was a peculiar jarring in Dick's ears before the second bar was played; and, before they were half-way through eight, the conductor's stick was tapping the music-stand fiercely. "Stop! stop! stop!" he yelled. "My good fellow, this won't do; you're flat--horribly flat!" Richard stood with his eyes fixed upon his music, expecting to see his companion alter the tuning-slide of his flute; but the man waited, with a supercilious smile upon his face, and the leader went on-- "Do you hear, you Smithson? That's horribly flat. Now, then, blow A." Dick raised his instrument and blew a pure, clear note in perfect tune. "Not that one; harder; your upper A." A note an octave higher rang out pure and clear. "That's better! Now begin again: the soft movement, please." Mr Wilkins waved his wand, and a fresh start was made, but it was more melancholy than the first. It sounded as if the women gathered in the marketplace to welcome the return of the German warriors had set up a howl of misery, which was ended by the crack of the conductor's stick. "Stop! stop! stop!" he yelled. "You are blowing out of tune, sir! This is horrible! we cannot have a row like cats in the band!" This was a legitimate occasion for mirth, so the men laughed, and Mr Wilkins looked pleased and the spectacles twinkled. "Now, again; and be careful, sir, if you are to play with us. Now, then!" Down came the baton, two bars were played, and the result was so much worse that the bandmaster banged his music-stand frantically. "Stand back, sir!" he yelled. "This is ridiculous! What does the colonel mean? What do you mean, sir, by pretending you know the music? What? What's that you say?" "I said 'I beg pardon,' sir," began Dick. "Beg pardon! Why, you are an impostor, sir; and if you are to stop here, I shall resign!--What?" "I only wanted to say, sir," continued Dick, quietly, "that this last time I didn't blow a note." "Well, of all the impudence! Then, pray, sir, what was the meaning of that hideous discord?" "I don't know, sir. I presume that someone's instrument is not in tune." "Someone's instrument not in tune!" cried the bandmaster. "Here, Jones, Morris, Bigham, run through half a dozen bars." He waved his wand, and the three musicians blew together without the bass and tenor instruments, with a worse effect than ever, and the listening brasses burst out into a fresh roar of laughter; while Dick had hard work, in his triumph, to suppress a smile. "Then it's you, Jones!" "No, sir," said the flute-player. "I'm all right!" "You can't be!" cried the other two men, indignantly. "He's playing in the wrong key," said the first. "That I ain't!" cried the flute-player. "I'm all right, I tell you! It was the new chap." "How could it be the new chap when he was _not_ blowing, idiot?" cried the bandmaster, angrily, trying hard to hedge and preserve his character for consistency. "Here, you Smithson, run through those few bars with the others. No; not you, Jones." The flautist sulkily lowered his flute, while the theme was now played as a trio with admirable effect. "Humph! not bad--not bad at all," said Wilkins, as a murmur of satisfaction arose from the men. Meanwhile, the flautist was turning over his flute and glancing from it to the beautiful instrument Dick held. "Now," cried the leader, "run through that again, Jones--or, no, with the clarionet." He beat time and the two instruments sounded; but, at the end of the first bar, the clarionet-player took the reed from his lips. "'Tain't good enough, sir!" he said. "Good enough!" cried Wilkins, angrily; "it's disgraceful!" "Yer never thought it disgraceful till this new chap come," cried the discomfited flute-player. "Who's to play proper on a thing like this? Look at his!" "Hold your tongue, stoopid!" whispered the nearest man. "You'll be getting yourself in a row." "Look at his flute!" cried Wilkins. "Why, he'd get more music out of a tin whistle than you would out of his. Here, you Smithson, see what you can do with that flute. Now, my lads, once again." Dick took Jones's flute unwillingly for more than one reason. He felt that he was making an enemy of the man; but there was no time for hesitation, and, as they struck up, he played his part admirably upon the strange instrument, and then stood waiting. "Give him his flute," said Wilkins, shortly. "Don't you go abusing our band instruments again, young man, or you'll be finding yourself sent back to the ranks. Now, please, we're losing time." And so the practice went on Dick, feeling that he was making enemies all round till, about an hour after, when he was in the long-room, and half a dozen of the bandsmen came in together, looked at him, then at one another, and one of them said-- "I'm glad you've joined." "We've been thinking it over, and we're going to see if we can't work up some better music now. Never you mind about Wilkins; his bark's worse than his bite." "And he likes to show off," said another. "Wants people to think what a clever one he is. We'll have some quiet practices together, if you like." "I shall be very glad," said Dick eagerly. "That's right, and you can give us a few hints. Wilkins turned nasty through that snubbing he got over yonder, at the mess-room, but he'll soon come round. I'm sorry, though, about old Jones." "So am I," cried Dick; "I quite felt for him this afternoon." "Yes, he never ought to have been put to music. I hope he won't turn nasty," said the first speaker, "for he's got a temper of his own. But, there, you needn't mind him." "No," thought Dick, "I need not mind him; but I don't like making enemies, all the same." _ |
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