Most amateurs call this process “vamping the part.” This, and the clever deed known as “cueing in” passages supposed to be played by instruments that we lack, are our chief offences against the law.
There are proud spirits in the world who refuse to have anything to do with either of these sins. When they come to a passage that is not well within their reach, they lay down the fiddle and the bow, and sit back tolerantly while the rest go on without them. Their motto is the one made famous by a certain publishing house: Tout bien ou rien. That is a fine watchword for a publisher, but fatal in a scrub orchestra. There, it is likely to mean that “tout” must go “bien,” or you resign.
Nobody has ever resigned from our orchestra. We are called a Trio, because our minimum is three. But, in actual fact, we rarely play with less than seven performers. Whenever we are about to play in public, we reënforce ourselves with additional instruments, beginning with a favorite extra violin. If we are to play in the evening, we can count on a viola and a clarinet, played respectively by the senior and the junior partner of a hardware firm: Mr. Bronson and Mr. Billings, of Bronson and Billings. If we are to play on Sunday, we are sure of a double-bass. And on state occasions, we are joined by an attorney-at-law who plays the piccolo. People who invite us to play always request music by Our Trio, and then inquire delicately how many of us there will be.
A trio of this kind is sure to be in demand. In making our way to the place where we are to play, we have learned to go in relays through the streets. This is not because we are ashamed to be seen carrying the badge of our talent through the town, but because if we all go together there is a discussion about who shall carry what instruments. Barbara, our 'cellist, is the storm-centre of these broils. The 'cello, like some people, has the misfortune to look a great deal heavier than it really is. No gentleman likes to let a lady carry one.
“Really, it's as light as a feather,” says Barbara, swinging it easily alongside.
“But,” reasons the viola earnestly, “think how it looks.”
To avoid all friction, Barbara goes ahead with the gentleman who plays the bass-viol. Together they present a striking aspect to the passer-by, but they have peace and mutual understanding in their hearts. Nobody could expect a gentleman, however gallant, to carry both a 'cello and a double-bass.
The rest of us follow along at a safe distance, and arrive at becoming intervals at the place where we are to play.
For convenience in talking among ourselves, we have divided our performances into three classes: the platform performance, the semi-screened, and the screened. Our semi-screened programmes are those where we are partly hidden from view, in choir-lofts, conservatories, verandas, and anterooms. The screened are those that take place behind palms. Of all these sorts, we vastly prefer the screened.
Each of us has a special reason for this preference. Mr. Bronson, the viola, prefers it because, screened, he is allowed to beat time with his foot. There is something very contented-looking about the tilt of his long shoe, thrust out informally amidst the shrubbery—the toe rising and falling in exact rhythm with the music, now legato, now appassionato, our perfect metronome. Such happiness is contagious.