icalcomedy.Nothingboredhim.EventhemostingenuousfindalittlecloyingthehumoursandtheharmoniesofaGaietyburlesquetheyareliketoffeeandbutterscotch,delicaciesforwhichwecannotunderstandouryouthfulcraving.Berthahadlearntsomethingofmusicinlandswhereitiscultivatedasapleasureratherthanasaduty,andthepopularmelodieswithobviousrefrainssentcoldshiversdownherbackbuttheystirredCraddocktothedepthsofhissoul.Hebeattimetotheswinging,vulgartunes,andhisfacewastransfiguredwhenthebandplayedapatrioticmarchwithagreatbrayingofbrassandbeatingofdrums.Hewhistledandhummeditfordaysafterwards.“Ilovemusic,”hetoldBerthaintheentracte.“Don’tyou?”
Withatendersmilesheconfessedshedid,andforfearofhurtingEdward’sfeelingsdidnotsuggestthatthemusicinquestionmadeheralmostvomit.Whatmattereditifhistasteinthatrespectwerenotbeyondreproachafteralltherewassomethingtobesaidforthehonest,homelymelodiesthattouchedthepeople’sheart.ItisonlybyaconventionthatthePastoralSymphonyisthoughtbetterartthanTarara-boom-deay.Perhaps,intwoorthreehundredyears,wheneverythingisdonebyelectricityandeveryoneisequal,whenweareallhappysocialists,withgoodeducationsandbettermorals,Beethoven’scomplexitywillbelikeamassofwickedness,andonlytheplain,honesthomelinessofthecomicsongwillappealtooursimplefeelings.
“Whenwegethome,”saidCraddock,“IwantyoutoplaytomeI’msofondofit.”
“Ishallloveto,”shemurmured.Shethoughtofthelongwintereveningswhichtheywouldspendatthepiano,herhusbandbyhersidetoturntheleaves,whiletohisastonishedearssheunfoldedthemanifoldrichesofthegreatcomposers.Shewasconvincedthathistastewasreallyexcellent.
“Ihavelotsofmusicthatmymotherusedtoplay,”hesaid.“ByJove,Ishallliketohearitagain—someofthoseoldtunesIcanneverhearoftenenough—TheLastRoseofSummer,andHome,SweetHome,andalotmorelikethat.”
“ByJove,thatshowwasripping,”saidCraddock,whentheywerehavingsupper“Ishouldliketoseeitagainbeforewegoback.”