Telegrams of the Soul

The Drummer Belín

He sat with his young wife at “Ronacher’s” Variety Show. He said to people who raised their eyebrows: “Why not? I’m interested in the tendrils of art. Aren’t there also, after all, perfectly legitimate joints at the Prater? Well then!?”

The show begins at eight o’clock. A thousand bulbs light up.

“The Pickwicks.” Fat fellahs in light blue undershirts leapfrog over each other, sweating.

You can almost hear their lungs cry out: “Enough already, cut it out—.”

Everybody applauds. The young woman thinks: “Such tiresome — un-wholesome stuff!”

A little girl thin as a pink thread works her way across a white telephone wire.

A thin thing struggling with a thinner thing!

“Unwholesome!” mutters the young woman.

Three bears out of the wild make their appearance. One intones something in his native growl. Nobody understands. It means: “I was wild, wild arggggggggh I was wild—!”

Everybody applauds.

“Thoroughly un-wholesome!” the young woman thinks to herself.

A pantomime up next, “La Puce.” “The very soul of silence enveloped by vulgarity.”

“A young woman in a light green silk dress undresses herself in search of ‘la puce’ (the flea), and so misses her rendezvous. The flea is her noble protector. The flea wins the day. Hurray for the flea—!”

Everybody applauds.

The young woman feels: “How terribly tiresome—!”

Now the drum virtuoso Belín.

“That’s just what we need, a drummer—,” somebody says, “hope he’s good for a laugh! What can he do? Beat the drum?!”

The audience cries out to him without words: “Hello, Mr. Drummer—!”

A little drum sits askew on a little drum stand.

He comes out in black tails and a white tie. His wavy hair is streaked with gray.

The piece is called “The Battle!”:

Rata-tat tat tat tat — from the distance countless troops come running, millions, ever more, ever more, more, more, more. More—! They sneak, slide, scurry, fly—. Pause.

Defensive salvo — rata-tat! Pause. Rata-ta, rata-ta, rata-ta, ratata — ratatat-tat!

The battle sings its song, shouts, shrieks, screams, moans, breathes its last——. Pause. All of a sudden a terrible uproar——rrrrata-tat rrrrata rrrrata rrrrata-tat tat tat tat tat — trrrrrrrrra! The death struggle of life: “The Battle!”

Hurricane roll!

He rapes the ear, stretches it, rips it apart, shakes it, brakes it, storms into the soul and makes it — tremble! An awful drum-roll, a terrible, unrelenting, gruesome, bloody-eared drum-roll! Won’t he stop it?! He won’t stop, rrrrata-tat, rattles on, tears your nerves to shreds, rrrata-tat-tat! Roll it! Roll it—!! Rrrrata-tat!

He mops the floor with ’em, mows ’em down, wipes ’em out!

Bang-bang——bang! Rrrrrrrrrat——. The battle goes dead.

Silence.

The man in black tails rises, bows, makes his exit—.

Nobody applauds.

“A wretched drummer—,” you think to yourself, “tears up the drum skin.”

“A genius of the wrist flat out—,” remarks an aristocrat in a box seat.

The young woman sits there, pale as can be—.

“You look scared to death—,” says the husband, and lays his hand gently on hers.

“Napoleon—!” she whispers.

“What’s that?” says the husband.

“He got so little applause—,” she says, “maybe he’ll be fired—.”

“Oh no—,” says the husband, “they’re on contract—. How pale you look—.”

The young woman gulps: “Napoleon—!”