A Book of Burlesques

by H. L. Mencken

The Virgin

Ah, how dolorous, how exquisite is love! How small the world would seem if——

The Married Woman

Of course you could hardly call such old scarecrows temptations. But still——

(The Great Pianist comes to the last measure of the coda—a passage of almost Haydnesque clarity and spirit. As he strikes the broad chord of the tonic there comes a roar of applause. He arises, moves a step or two down the stage, and makes a series of low bows, his hands to his heart.)

The Great Pianist

(Bowing.) I wonder why the American women always wear raincoats to piano recitals. Even when the sun is shining brightly, one sees hundreds of them. What a disagreeable smell they give to the hall. (More applause and more bows.) An American audience always smells of rubber and lilies-of-the-valley. How different in London! There an audience always smells of soap. In Paris it reminds you of sachet bags—and lingerie.

(The applause ceases and he returns to the piano.)

And now comes that verfluchte adagio.