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Wit and Humor of America, The Vol 02

<h2>AN EVENING MUSICALE</h2> <h3>BY MAY ISABEL FISK</h3> Scene—A conventional, but rather over-decorated, drawing-room. Grand piano drawn conspicuously to center of floor. Rows of camp-chairs. It is ten minutes before the hour of invitation. The Hostess, a large woman, is costumed in yellow satin, embroidered in spangles. Her diamonds are many and of large size. She is seated on the extreme edge of a chair, struggling with a pair of very long gloves. She looks flurried and anxious. Poor Relative, invited as a "great treat," sits opposite. Her expression is timid and apprehensive. They are the only occupants of the room. Hostess—No such thing, Maria. You look all right. Plain black is always very genteel. Nothing I like so well for evening, myself. Just keep your face to the wall as much as you can, and the worn places will never show. You can take my ecru lace scarf, if you wish, and that will cover most of the spots. I don't mean my new scarf—the one I got two years ago. It's a little torn, but it won't matter—for you. I think you will find it on the top shelf of the store-room closet on the third floor. If you put a chair on one of the trunks, you can easily reach it. Just wait a minute, till I get these gloves on; I want you to button them. I do hope I haven't forgotten anything. Baron von Gosheimer has promised to come. I have told everybody. It would be terrible if he should disappoint me. Masculine Voice from Above—Sarah, where the devil have you put my shirts? Everything is upside down in my room, and I can't find them. I pulled every blessed thing out of the chiffonier and wardrobe, and they're not there! Hostess—Oh, Henry! You must hurry—I'm going to use your room for the gentlemen's dressing-room, and it's time now for people to come. You must hurry. Host (from above, just as front door opens, admitting Baron von Gosheimer and two women guests)—Where the devil are my shirts? Hostess (unconscious of arrivals)—Under the bed in my room. Hurry! (Host, in bath gown and slippers, dashes madly into wife's room, and dives under bed as women guests enter. Unable to escape, he crawls farther beneath bed. His feet remain visible. Women guests discover them.) Guests (in chorus)—Burglars! burglars! Help! help! (Baron von Gosheimer, ascending to the next floor, hears them and hastens to the rescue.) Baron—Don't be alarmed, ladies. Has either of you a poker? No? That is to be deplored. (Catches Host by heels and drags him out. Tableau.) Hostess (to Poor Relative, giving an extra tug at her gloves)—There, it's all burst out on the side! That stupid saleslady said she knew they would be too small. Oh, dear, I'm that upset! And these Louis Quinze slippers are just murdering me. I wish it were all over. (Enter Baron von Gosheimer and women guests.) Hostess—Dear baron, how good of you! I was just saying, if you didn't come I should wish my musicale in Jericho. And, now that you are here, I don't care if any one else comes or not. (To women guests.) How d'ye do? I must apologize for Mr. Smythe—he's been detained down-town. He just telephoned me. He'll be in later. Do sit down; it's just as cheap as standing, I always say, and it does save your feet. You ladies can find seats over in the corner. (Detaining Baron.) Dear baron—(Enter guests.) Guest—So glad you have a clear evening. Now, when we gave our affair, it poured. Of course, we had a crowd, just the same. People always come to us, whether it rains or not. (Takes a seat. Guests begin to arrive in numbers.) Hostess—So sweet of you to come! Guest—So glad you have a pleasant evening. I am sure to have a bad night whenever I entertain— Hostess—(to another guest)—So delightful of you to come! Guest—Such a perfect evening! I'm so glad. I said as we started out, "Now, this time, Mrs. Smythe can't help but have plenty of people. Whenever I entertain, it's sure to—" (More guests.) (Telegram arrives, announcing that the prima donna has a sore throat, and will be unable to come. Time passes.) Male Guest (to another)—Well, I wish to heaven, something would be doing soon. This is the deadest affair I was ever up against. Omnipresent Joker (greeting acquaintance)—Hello, old man!—going to sing to-night? Acquaintance—Oh, yes, going to sing a solo. Joker—So low you can't hear it? Ha, ha! (Guests near by groan.) Voice (overheard)—Madame Cully? My dear, she always tells you that you haven't half enough material, and makes you get yards more. Besides, she never sends your pieces back, though I have— Fat Old Lady (to neighbor)—I never was so warm in my life! I can't imagine why people invite you, just to make you uncomfortable. Now, when I entertain, I have the windows open for hours before any one comes. Joker (aside)—That's why she always has a frost! Ha, ha! (Host enters, showing traces of hasty toilette—face red, and a razor-cut on chin.) Host (rubbing his hands, and endeavoring to appear at ease and facetious)—Well, how d'ye do, everybody! Sorry to be late on such an auspicious— Joker (interrupting)—Suspicious! Ha, ha! Host—occasion. I hope you are all enjoying yourselves. Chorus of Guests—Yes, indeed! Hostess—'Sh, 'sh, 'sh! I have a great disappointment for you all. Here is a telegram from my best singer, saying she is sick, and can't come. Now, we will have the pleasure of listening to Miss Jackson. Miss Jackson is a pupil of Madame Parcheesi, of Paris. (Singer whispers to her.) Oh, I beg your pardon! It's Madame Marcheesi. Deaf Old Gentleman (seated by piano, talking to pretty girl)—I'd rather listen to you than hear this caterwauling. (Old Gentleman is dragged into corner and silenced.) Young Woman (singing)—"Why do I sing? I know not, I know not! I can not help but sing. Oh, why do I sing?" (Guests moan softly and demand of one another, Why does she sing?) Woman Guest (to another)—Isn't that just the way?—their relatives are always dying, and it's sure to be wash-day or just when you expect company to dinner, and off they go to the funeral— (Butler appears with trayful of punch-glasses.) Male Guest (to another)—Thank the Lord! here's relief in sight. Let's drown our troubles. The Other—It's evident you haven't sampled the Smythes' punch before. I tell you it's a crime to spoil a thirst with this stuff. Well, here's how. Woman Guest (to neighbor)—I never saw Mrs. Smythe looking quite so hideous and atrociously vulgar before, did you? Neighbor—Never! Why did we come? Voice (overheard)—The one in the white-lace gown and all those diamonds? Another Voice—Yes. Well, you know it was common talk that before he married her— Hostess—'Sh, 'sh, 'sh! Signor Padrella has offered to play some of his own compositions, but I thought you would all rather hear something familiar by one of the real composers—Rubens or Chopin—Chopinhauer, I think— (Pianist plunges wildly into something.) Voice (during a lull in the music)—First, you brown an onion in the pan, then you chop the cabbage— Guest (in the dressing-room, just arriving, to another)—Yes, we are awfully late, too, but I always say you never can be too late at one of the Smythes' horrors. Thin Young Woman (in limp pink gown and string of huge pearls, who has come to recite)—I'm awfully nervous, and I do believe I'm getting hoarse. Mama, you didn't forget the lemon juice and sugar? (Drinks from bottle.) Now, where are my bronchial troches? Don't you think I could stand just a little more rouge? I think it's a shame I'm not going to have footlights. Remember, you are not to prompt me, unless I look at you. You will get me all mixed up, if you do. (They descend.) Hostess (to elocutionist)—Why, I thought you were never coming! I wanted you to fill in while people were taking their seats. The guests always make so much noise, and the singers hate it. Now, what did you say you would require—an egg-beater and a turnip, wasn't it? Oh, no! That's for the young man who is going to do the tricks. I remember. Are you all ready? Elocutionist (in a trembling voice)—Ye-es. Hostess—'Sh, 'sh, 'sh! Elocutionist—Aux Italiens. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "At Paris it was, at the opera there, And she looked like—" </div> </div> Guest (to another)—Thirty cents, old chap! I tell you, there's nothing will knock you out quicker than— Hostess—'Sh, 'sh, 'sh! (Young woman finishes, and retires amidst subdued applause. Reappears immediately and gives "The Maniac.") Hostess—As I have been disappointed in my best talent for this evening, Mr. Briggs has kindly consented to do some of his parlor-magic tricks. (Mr. Briggs steps forward, a large, florid young man, wearing a "made" dress-tie, the buckle of which crawls up the back of his collar.) Briggs—Now, ladies and gentlemen, I shall have to ask you all to move to the other side of the room. (This is accomplished with muttered uncomplimentary remarks concerning the magician.) Briggs (to Hostess)—I must have the piano pushed to the further end. I must have plenty of space. (All the men guests are pressed into service, and, with much difficulty the piano is moved.) Briggs—Now, I want four large screens. Hostess (faintly)—But I have only two! Briggs—Well, then, get me a clothes-horse and a couple of sheets. Poor Relative—You know, Sarah, I used the last two when I made up my bed in the children's nursery yesterday. I can easily get— Hostess (hastily)—No, Maria, don't trouble. (To guests)—Perhaps, some of you gentlemen wouldn't mind lending us your overcoats to cover the clothes-horse? Chorus (with great lack of enthusiasm)—Of course! Delighted! (They go for coats.) Hostess (to Poor Relative)—Maria, you get the clothes-horse. I think it's in the laundry, or—Oh, I think it's in the cellar. Well, you look till you find it. (To Briggs)—I got as many of the things you asked for as I could remember. Will you read the list over? Briggs—Turnip and egg-beater— Hostess—Yes. Briggs—Egg, large clock, jar of gold-fish, rabbit and empty barrel. Hostess—I have the egg. Briggs (much annoyed)—I particularly wanted the gold-fish, the clock and the barrel. (Guests grow restless.) Hostess—Couldn't you do a trick while we are waiting—one with the egg-beater and turnip? Briggs—No; I don't know one. Hostess—Couldn't you make up one? Briggs (icily)—Certainly not. (Gloom descends over the company, until the Poor Relative arrives, staggering under the clothes-horse.) Chorus of Men Guests—Let me help you! (Improvised screen is finally arranged. Briggs performs "parlor magic" for an hour. Guests, fidget, yawn and commence to drop away, one by one.) Guest (to Hostess)—Really, we must tear ourselves away. Such a delightful evening!—not a dull moment. And your punch—heavenly! Do ask us again. Good night. Hostess—Thank you so much! So good of you to come. Another Guest—Yes, we must go. I've had a perfectly dear time. Hostess—So sorry you must go. So good of you to come. Good night. IN THE DRESSING-ROOM Chorus of Guests—Wasn't it awful?—Such low people!—Why did we ever come—Parvenue! Elocutionist—I was all right, wasn't I, mama? You noticed they never clapped a bit until I'd walked the whole length of the room to my chair. It just showed how wrought up they were. You nearly mixed me up, though, prompting me in the wrong place; I— Hostess (throwing herself on sofa as door closes on last guest)—Well, I'm completely done up! (To Poor Relative)—Maria, run up to my room, and get my red worsted bed-slippers. I can't stand these satin tortures a minute longer. Entertaining is an awful strain. It's so hard trying not to say the wrong thing at the right place. But, then, it certainly went off beautifully. I could tell every one had such a good time! <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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