At this juncture an excursion steamboat made its appearance upon the river, and conversation was suspended till it had passed. It was gay with bunting and black with humanity. It strove its best to render day hideous by dispensing a staccato version of “Home, Sweet Home” from the blatant throat of a Calliope—an instrument consisting of a series of steam whistles graduated in chromatic scale.
“How uncomfortable those poor people must be,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. “Is—is this one of the dark, mysterious craft?”
“It is a product of our glorious American civilization. None but an alchemist with true American instincts, would ever have thought of transmuting steam to music.”
“Music?” queried Mrs. Lehmyl, dubiously.
Arthur was about to qualify his use of the term when the door opened and admitted a procession of Mrs. Berle’s daughters and sons-in-law. An uproar of greetings and presentations followed. The men exchanged remarks about the weather and the state of trade; the women, kisses and inquiries concerning health. Bits of news were circulated. “Lester Bar is engaged to Emma Frankenstiel,” “Mrs. Seitel’s baby was born yesterday—another girl,” “Du lieber Gott!” “Ist’s moglich?” and so on; a breezy mingling of German with English, of statement with expletive; the whole emphasized by an endless swaying of heads and lifting of eyebrows. The wine and cakes made a second tour of the room. Fresh cigars were lighted. The ladies fell to comparing notes about their respective offspring. One of the gentlemen volunteered a circumstantial account of a Wagner concert he had attended the night previous. It was a long while before any thing resembling quiet was restored. Arthur seized the first opportunity that presented itself to edge back to Mrs. Lehmyl’s side.
“All this talk about music,” he said, “has whetted my appetite. You are going to sing for us, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t dare to, in this assemblage of Wagnerites. The sort of music that I can sing would seem heresy from their point of view. I can’t sing Wagner, and I shouldn’t venture upon any thing so retrograde as Schumann or Schubert. Besides, I’m rather tired to-day, and—so please don’t introduce the subject. Mrs. Berle might follow it up; and if she asked me, I couldn’t very well refuse.”
Mrs. Lehmyl’s tone showed that she meant what she said.
“This is a great disappointment,” Arthur rejoined.
“You don’t know how anxious I am to hear you sing at close quarters. But as for your music being retrograde, why, only the other night I was admiring your fine taste in making selections. Wohin, for instance. Isn’t Wohin abreast of the times?”