An Angler at Large/Chapter 15
Up on the downs the skylarks are not having it all their own way this summer.
I know three catches. One of these my wife knew previously to our marriage.
The other two I have taught to her. These we sing as we walk the hills of Wiltshire.
To the musically untutored there is something peculiarly intoxicating in the sound of their own voices. This characteristic of humanity has caused many good men who live in the vicinity of frequented high roads to blaspheme on their pillows. I am not a good man, but I have blasphemed like the best of them, and for the same reason, while the Lower Orders have been returning home of a Saturday or a Sunday night. I have often wished for a snipping instrument large enough to sever at one operation the vocal chords of all the musically untutored, forgetting that I am one of them. I am glad now that the opportunity was not granted to my impious prayer. For I should have done it, and I should now have been unable to sing on the downs. I hope that I shall for the future have a larger toleration for the musically untutored. But I fear that I shall not. A present desire for sleep will always prevail over the most pleasurable memory of vocalisation. I shall almost certainly blaspheme again.
The catches which we sing are the following: Scotland's (or London's) Burning; A Boat, A Boat! and Frère Jacques. The last is in French. When we render it we feel exorbitantly clever, for to sing at all, in harmony, places us among the artists, but to do it in a foreign tongue—this is culture.
To the musically untutored part-singing is an unattainable mystery, bellowing with the aid of a cornet in, as nearly as possible, unison being the summit of their ambition in this direction. But if they would only try a simple catch or two, they would find themselves executing what is admittedly one of man's most difficult feats—I mean harmonising their sounds with the sounds of other people. And they would feel like gods and never do anything else. But they know nothing of catches. The popular numbers of last year's pantomimes are all they can memorise. Now it is surely as easy to learn Frère Jacques (I dwell on this one with particular pride), which is unlike any other tune whatever, as it is to learn Give my Regards to Leicester Square, which is undistinguishable save by three notes and a modulation (I speak as one of the musically untutored) from thirty other tunes of its class. And if they would take the trouble to master this simple little French air and attack it boldly one after the other they would be amply rewarded. They would discover that after a period of bawling, with ears shut as far as possible to everybody else's efforts, their own voice would be heard blending deliciously with the voices of other people, and, what is more remarkable, they would be able to maintain their striking performance indefinitely. They would catch themselves harmonising, and would step instantly from the ranks of sheer noise into the ordered realm of Art. And they would be purified and give their regards to Leicester Square no more. Therefore the People's Palace Musical Festival is a thing to send guineas to, though I do not myself do this.
We did not attain our present degree of perfection in catch-singing without a good deal of toil. Nothing really worth doing, except eating and drinking and sleep, can be learned easily. You will remember that I had to teach two of our numbers to my wife. This was a terrible business. It is one thing to sing a tune so that one recognises it oneself; it is another to give it out so that some one else is able to recognise it. My wife is far from being one of the musically untutored, but she was not sufficiently educated to pick up instruction from me. She had to work at it, I promise you.
When I hummed Frère Jacques to her for the hundredth time it was not her fault if she thought I was occupied with Scotland's (or London's) Burning. But my resolution and her patience have triumphed, Love (which is capable of all things) co-operating; and now we never mix our tunes, and our harmonies are blended in a manner entirely satisfactory to ourselves.
This singing in the open air is a most uplifting exercise. On the downs it is intoxicating. Where no rabbit can move unobserved within earshot one's freedom from human observation is complete. Singing on a bicycle is also good, but, moving rapidly between hedges, one is never sure that some idiot child or shattered tramp has not been left behind. But on hill-tops one is free of all restraint in this kind, and one can pull out all the stops.
Argument for the same reason is also carried on with great luxury in these high places. But argument is more dangerous because, once involved in a chain of reasoning (and how involved one can become!), these unselfish considerations are apt to vanish, and, caring nothing though all the children in England be rendered imbecile, one descends into regions of comparative civilisation in the full flood of roaring ratiocination. Chavender declared, during his visit, that whilst angling one afternoon blamelessly[1] by the river he imagined for a few moments that he had found a reason for his lack of success in distant thunder, which presently became articulate and recognisable as periods which pulverised the Specialisation of the Modern Actor. He was careful, I notice, to find out what his hostess had been discussing during the after-tea walk, and also, the slave! to elicit her views on the subject. Once assured that she favoured the special line of business, he no longer hesitated to imperil his soul in the manner I have indicated. Therefore that night he returned to an excessively large teapot.
But I digress unworthily.
Yet I find that I have said all that I have to say about our singing of catches.
- ↑ His own description of his proceedings.