“Ha! you’re a real fellow, Brother Eric Gustaf!” He put down his pipe and began to toot vociferously, sending out a volley of ear-splitting blasts.
Now that the guests were all furnished with instruments, they remarked that the host himself had none. Whereupon, the Lieutenant produced a little wooden whistle, one end of which must be placed in a glass of water when one blew upon it. By so doing one could make trills as sweet as any nightingale’s.
And last, they begged Fru Lagerlöf to accompany them on the piano.
In honour of the Major they first essayed the stirring Finnish martial hymn, the “March of the Björneborgers.” Fru Lagerlöf struck the opening chords, and the orchestra followed as best it could. It was a clang and a din that took the house by storm.
They did their best, all of them. Sexton Melanoz, Jan Asker, and Herr Tyberg played with a certain assurance, but the Major frequently lagged behind and the Lieutenant put in a few haphazard trills, due in part to the freakish behaviour of his “nightingale” and in part to a mischievous desire to throw the others out of time.
When they had played the march through once they were so enlivened and interested they wanted to go over it again, to get it quite perfect. The Major blew and tooted till his eyes were red and his cheeks distended, as if ready to split. Obviously, he was not as proficient at the horn as he had made himself out, for he did not play in time even on second trial.
Of a sudden he jumped up and hurled the French horn across the room toward the chimney corner with such force that it came near crushing Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt’s most sensitive toe.
“Hang it all!” he shouted. “I’m not going to sit here and spoil the Björneborgers’ March.... Play on, you who can!”
The others were a bit disconcerted, naturally, but they took up the march for the third time. And now the Major sang, Sons of a race that bled. He carried the air in a deep, rich bass that filled the whole house. The human voice flowed on like a mighty tide, bearing along with it the tinny old piano, the shrill clarinet, the violin, scraped in old fiddler-fashion, the three-stringed guitar, the Sergeant’s triangle and the Lieutenant’s capricious nightingale.
Their hearts warmed, for the loss of Finland still rankled in their breasts; and now they seemed to be marching with the brave Björneborg lads to take back their country from the Russians.