The sentiment of the meeting seemed to be unanimous in favor of shelving work and listening to Mr Saltzburg’s waltz.
“Oh, Mr Saltzburg, do!”
“Please!”
“Some one told me it was a pipterino!”
“I cert’nly do love waltzes!”
“Please, Mr Saltzburg!”
Mr Saltzburg obviously weakened. His fingers touched the keys irresolutely.
“But, childrun!”
“I am sure it would be a great pleasure to all of us,” said the duchess graciously, “if you would play it. There is nothing I enjoy more than a good varlse.”
Mr Saltzburg capitulated. Like all musical directors he had in his leisure moments composed the complete score of a musical play and spent much of his time waylaying librettists on the Rialto and trying to lure them to his apartment to listen to it, with a view to business. The eternal tragedy of a musical director’s life is comparable only to that of the waiter who, himself fasting, has to assist others to eat, Mr Saltzburg had lofty ideas on music, and his soul revolted at being compelled perpetually to rehearse and direct the inferior compositions of other men. Far less persuasion than he had received today was usually required to induce him to play the whole of his score.
“You wish it?” he said. “Well, then! This waltz, you will understand, is the theme of a musical romance which I have composed. It will be sung once in the first act by the heroine, then in the second act as a duet for heroine and hero. I weave it into the finale of the second act, and we have an echo of it, sung off stage, in the third act. What I play you now is the second-act duet. The verse is longer. So! The male voice begins.”
A pleasant time was had by all for ten minutes.
“Ah, but this is not rehearsing, childrun!” cried Mr Saltzburg remorsefully at the end of that period. “This is not business. Come now, the opening chorus of act one, and please this time keep on the key. Before, it was sour, sour. Come! La-la-la —”
“Mr Thalzburg!”
“Miss Trevor?”
“There was an awfully thweet fox-trot you used to play us. I do wish —”
“Some other time, some other time! Now we must work. Come! La-la-la —”
“I wish you could have heard it, girls,” said the cherub regretfully. “Honetht, it wath a lalapalootha!”
The pack broke into full cry.
“Oh, Mr Saltzburg!”
“Please, Mr Saltzburg!”
“Do play the fox-trot, Mr Saltzburg!”
“If it is as good as the varlse,” said the duchess, stooping once more to the common level, “I am sure it must be very good indeed.” She powdered her nose. “And one so rarely hears musicianly music nowadays, does one?”
“Which fox-trot?” asked Mr Saltzburg weakly.
“Play ’em all!” decided a voice on the left.
“Yes, play ’em all,” bayed the pack.
“I am sure that that would be charming,” agreed the duchess, replacing her powder-puff.
Mr Saltzburg played ’em all. This man by now seemed entirely lost to shame. The precious minutes that belonged to his employers and should have been earmarked for “The Rose of America” flitted by. The ladies and gentlemen of the ensemble, who should have been absorbing and learning to deliver the melodies of Roland Trevis and the lyrics of Otis Pilkington, lolled back in their seats. The yellow-keyed piano rocked beneath an unprecedented onslaught. The proceedings had begun to resemble not so much a rehearsal as a home evening, and grateful glances were cast at the complacent cherub. She had, it was felt, shown tact and discretion.
Pleasant conversation began again.
“— And I walked a couple of blocks, and there was exactly the same model in Schwartz and Gulderstein’s window at twenty-six fifty —”
“— He got on at Forty-second Street, and he was kinda fresh from the start. I could see he was carrying a package. At Sixty-sixth he came sasshaying right down the car and said ‘Hello, patootie!’ Well, I drew myself up —”
“— ‘Even if you are my sister’s husband,’ I said to him. Oh, I suppose I got a temper. It takes a lot to arouse it, y’know, but I c’n get pretty mad —”