One of these waitresses, a woman of forty, had side-whiskers reaching half-way down her jaws.  They were two fingers broad, dark in color, pretty thick, and the hairs were an inch long.  One sees many women on the continent with quite conspicuous mustaches, but this was the only woman I saw who had reached the dignity of whiskers.

After dinner the guests of both sexes distributed themselves about the front porches and the ornamental grounds belonging to the hotel, to enjoy the cool air; but, as the twilight deepened toward darkness, they gathered themselves together in that saddest and solemnest and most constrained of all places, the great blank drawing-room which is the chief feature of all continental summer hotels.  There they grouped themselves about, in couples and threes, and mumbled in bated voices, and looked timid and homeless and forlorn.

There was a small piano in this room, a clattery, wheezy, asthmatic thing, certainly the very worst miscarriage in the way of a piano that the world has seen.  In turn, five or six dejected and homesick ladies approached it doubtingly, gave it a single inquiring thump, and retired with the lockjaw.  But the boss of that instrument was to come, nevertheless; and from my own country—­from Arkansaw.

She was a brand-new bride, innocent, girlish, happy in herself and her grave and worshiping stripling of a husband; she was about eighteen, just out of school, free from affections, unconscious of that passionless multitude around her; and the very first time she smote that old wreck one recognized that it had met its destiny.  Her stripling brought an armful of aged sheet-music from their room —­for this bride went “heeled,” as you might say—­and bent himself lovingly over and got ready to turn the pages.

The bride fetched a swoop with her fingers from one end of the keyboard to the other, just to get her bearings, as it were, and you could see the congregation set their teeth with the agony of it.  Then, without any more preliminaries, she turned on all the horrors of the “Battle of Prague,” that venerable shivaree, and waded chin-deep in the blood of the slain.  She made a fair and honorable average of two false notes in every five, but her soul was in arms and she never stopped to correct.  The audience stood it with pretty fair grit for a while, but when the cannonade waxed hotter and fiercer, and the discord average rose to four in five, the procession began to move.  A few stragglers held their ground ten minutes longer, but when the girl began to wring the true inwardness out of the “cries of the wounded,” they struck their colors and retired in a kind of panic.

There never was a completer victory; I was the only non-combatant left on the field.  I would not have deserted my countrywoman anyhow, but indeed I had no desires in that direction.  None of us like mediocrity, but we all reverence perfection.  This girl’s music was perfection in its way; it was the worst music that had ever been achieved on our planet by a mere human being.