A few European artists, whose countenances exhibit a good
deal of fatigue, dust, and dirt, are seated in one corner
of the [railroad] car, accompanied by a stout lady who seems
about to faint away. This lady represents the Prima Donna
of the party. In the other corner is the manager, snoring.
The heat of the stove, and the effluvia of tobacco, make the
place any thing but pleasant.
Violinist: I wonder when we shall arrive?
Pianist: The concert is at eight o'clock. It is
now three; we have, therefore, just five hours' time.
Prima Donna: If I do not soon get some fresh air
and something to eat—
Manager (who regularly awakes when eating is mentioned):
Next station, madame.
Violinist (stops the Conductor, and addresses him in
his own language): How far to the next station?
Conductor looks at him, and—goes
on.
Violinist asks the Manager the same question.
Manager does not look at him, and snores
on.
Pianist: My dear, you are too impatient for America.
We have time; let us enjoy the while the scenery. The sights
here are—
Violinist (with a doleful voice): Charming!
Prima Donna (with a formidable sigh): O Paris!
A third artistic individual, until then apparently wrapped
in melancholy, gives the first evidence of existence by saying
that, "Concert-giving in America seemed to be rather
fatiguing."
Prima Donna: And it has been described to us as
so taking!
Pianist: Wait till we settle the accounts.
Manager (awaking): Accounts! Gentlemen, we have
not come to that yet.
The cars stop. The much-desired refreshment-station is at
hand. The artists get out.
Prima Donna (calling after them): Don't forget
me!
The melancholy brother artist soon returns with an apple-pie,
only two days old, and a glass of ice-water.
Prima Donna: What is it?
Brother artist (surprised): What! Pie, of course!
Prima Donna: Always pie! (Faints.)
Conductor: All on board!
The artists' corner is again complete. Diversified and most
unmistakable groaning.
Manager: Friends, be calm; we shall have twenty
minutes before the concert commences.
Prima Donna (recovering at the prospect of a dinner):
And the toilette?
Manager: You'll have full three minutes for that,
madame.
Prima Donna feels disgusted with the three minutes,
the Manager, and the concert-giving.
At last the hour of deliverance has come. They have arrived.
Manager (greatly pleased): Gentlemen, we have full
twenty-five minutes to restore ourselves.
The artists storm the hotel.
Prima Donna (to the Manager): I think, we sit down
immediately to dinner?
Manager (to the waiter): What have you got to eat?
Waiter: Tea is over.
Manager: I did not ask that. What have you got
to eat?
The artists are full of expectation. Waiter shrugs his shoulders
and retires. Artists and Manager after him.
Manager: Man, it is twenty minutes to eight—what
can we get to eat?
Waiter: Mince pie and cold mutton!
Prima Donna: Pie!
Violinist: Pie!
General despair, in which, however, the mutton and a peculiar
beverage which, in the far West, they call tea, disappear
with an incredible velocity.
Manager: Five minutes to eight!
The artists fly to the concert-room. The programme is worked
down. Manager counts the receipts. Retires to the hotel. The
waiter is asleep, the landlord is in bed.
Artists: What now?
Manager: Off again.
Violinist: What were the receipts?
Manager: Twenty-nine dollars. Expenses, twenty-eight
dollars. Balance, one dollar.
All (with different tones of voice): To the West!
to the West! |
