Old Fogy Part 9

"You see, sir, we are no further than Leybach and Auber. The name you mention is not familiar to me, but I can tell you all the different works of Carl Czerny; and I know how to spell Mascagni."

"Heavens," screamed Blink, and he fainted from fright. Beer was ordered, and after a short piano solo--Czerny's _Toccata in C_, from Dr. Larry Nopkin--order reigned once more. The cla.s.s gazed enviously at the committee as it sipped beer, and longed for the day when it would be free and critics of music. Then Mr. Quelson said that questioning was at an end. He had never endeavored to inculcate knowledge of a positive sort in his pupils. Besides, what did music critics want with knowledge?

They had Grove's Dictionary as a starter, and by carefully negativing every date and fact printed in it, they were sure to hit the truth somewhere. A ready pen was the thing, and he begged the committee to be allowed to present specimens of criticisms of imaginary concerts, written by the graduating cla.s.s of 1912.

The request was granted, and Dr. Nopkin selected as the reader. There was an interval of ten minutes, during which the doctor played s.n.a.t.c.hes of De Koven and Scharwenka, and the cla.s.s drove its pen furiously.

Finally, the bell sounded, and the following criticisms were handed to the president, and read aloud while the cla.s.s blushed in ruddy ensemble:

_An Interesting Evening_

"It was a startling sight that met the eyes of the musical editor of the _Evening Buzzard_ when he entered the De Pew Opera House last night at 8.22. All the leading families of Mushmelon, arrayed in their best raiment, disported themselves in glittering groups, and it was almost with a feeling of disappointment that we saw the curtain arise on the seventh act of _Faust_. Of course the music and singing were applauded to the echo, and the princ.i.p.als were forced to bow their acknowledgments to the gracious applause of the upper ten of Mushmelon. The following is a list of those present," etc. (Here follow names.)

"A rattling good notice that," said one of the older members of the committee. Mr. Quelson hastened to explain that it was intended for an emergency notice, when the night city editor was unmusical. "But,"

he added, "here is something in a more superior vein."

Dr. Nopkin read:

_How I Heard Paderewski!_

"Of course I heard Paderewski. Let me tell you all about it. I had quarreled with my dear one early in the day over a pneumatic tire, so I determined to forget it and go listen to some music.

"Music always soothes my nerves.

"Does it soothe yours, gentle reader?

"I went to hear Paderewski.

"Taking the Broadway car, me and my liver--my liver is my worst enemy; terrible things, livers; is life really worth the liver?--I sat down and paid my fare to a burly ruffian in a grimy uniform.

"Some day I shall tell you about my adventure with a car. Dear Lord, what an adventure it was!

"Ah, the bitter-sweet days! the long-ago days when we were young and trolleyed.

"But let me tell you how Paderewski played!

"After I reached my seat 4000 women cheered. I was the only man in the house; but being modest, I stood the strain as long as I could, and then--why, Paderewski was bowing, and I forgot all about the women and their enthusiasm at the sight of me.

"Fancy a slender-hipped orchidaceous person, an epicene youth with Botticellian hair and a Nietzsche walk. Fancy ten fluted figures and then--oh, you didn't care what he was playing--indeed, I mislaid my program--and then it was time to go home.

"Some day I shall give you my impressions of the Paderewskian technique, but today is a golden day, the violets are smiling, because G.o.d gave them perfume; a lissome la.s.s is in the foreground; why should I bother about piano, Paderewski, or technique?

"Dear Lord, dear Lord--!"

Mr. Quelson looked interrogatively at the committee when the doctor finished.

"The personal note, you know," he said, "the note that is so valued nowadays in criticism."

"Personal rubbish," grunted the doctor, and Mr. Slehbell joyously laughed.

"Give us one with more matter and less manner," remarked Mr. Sanderson, who had quietly but none the less determinedly eaten up all the sandwiches and drunk seven bottles of beer. Mr. Van Oven, of the _Morning Fowl_, was, as usual, fast asleep. [This was the manner in which he composed himself.]

Mr. Quelson handed the doctor the following:

_Solid Musical Meat_

"The small hall of the Mendelssohn Glee Club was crowded to listen to the polished playing of the Boston Squintet Club last night. It was a graciously inclined audience, and after

Haydn, Grieg, and Brahms had been disclosed, it departed in one of those frames of mind that the chronicler of music events can safely denominate as happy. There were many reasons, which may not be proclaimed now why this should be thus. The first quartet, one of the blithest, airiest, and most serene of Papa Haydn's, was published with absolute finish, if not with abandon. Its nave measures were never obsessed by the straining after modernity. The Grieg is hardly strict quartet music. It has a savor, a flavor, a perfume, an odor, even a st.u.r.dy smell of the Norway pine and fjord; but it is lacking woefully in repose and euphony, and at times it verges perilously on the cacophonous. Mr. Casnoozle and his gifted a.s.sociates played a marvelous accord and slid over all the yawning tonal precipices, but, heavens, how they did perspire! The Brahms Quartet--"

"I protest," said Mr. Blink, hastily rising. "I've been insulted ever since I entered the building. Why, the very name of the inst.i.tution is an insult to modern musicians! Brahms! why, good heavens, Brahms is only a whitewashed Hummel! And to think of these young minds being poisoned by such antique rot as Brahms' music!"

In a moment the committee was on its legs howling and jabbering; poor Mr. Quelson vainly endeavoring to keep order. After ten minutes of rowing, during which the cla.s.s sang _The Night That Larry Was Stretched_, Dr. Nopkin was pushed over the piano and fell on the treble and hurt his lungs. The noise brought to their senses the irate men, and then, to their consternation, they discovered that the cla.s.s had sneaked off during the racket, and on the blackboard was written: "Oh, we don't know, you're not so critical!"

"My Lord," groaned Mr. Quelson, "they have gone to that infernal Gregorian chant-cricket match; wait till I get hold of that Palestrina McVickar!"

The committee left in a bad humor on the next train, and the princ.i.p.al of Brahms Inst.i.tute gave his cla.s.s a vacation. Hereafter he will do his own examining.

XX

A WONDER CHILD

A recent event in the musical world of Laputa has been of such extraordinary moment as to warrant me in making some communication of same to your valuable sheet, and although in these days of electricity one might reasonably imagine the cable would have outstripped me, still by careful examination of American newspapers I find only meagre mention of the remarkable musical occurrence that shook all Laputa to its centre last month. As you know, we pride ourselves on being a thoroughly musical nation; our symphony concert programs and our operatic repertory contain all the novelties that are extant. To be sure, we are a little conservative in our tastes and relish Mozart, and, must it be confessed, even Haydn; but, on the other hand, we have a penchant for the Neo-Russian school and hope some day to found a trans-Asiatic band of composers whose names will probably be as hard as their harmonies are to European and American ears.

The event I speak of transcends anything in the prodigy line that we have ever encountered, for while we have been deluged with boy pianists, infant violinists, and baby singers, _ad nauseam_, still it must be confessed that a centenarian piano virtuoso who would make his debut before a curious audience on his hundredth birthday was a novelty indeed, particularly as the aged artist in question had been studying diligently for some ninety-five years under the best masters (and with what opportunities!) and would also on this most auspicious occasion conduct an orchestral composition of his own, a _Marche Funebre a la Tartare_, for the first time in public. This, then, I repeat, was a prodigy that promised to throw completely in the shade all compet.i.tors, in addition to its being an event that had no historical precedence in the annals of music.

With what burning curiosity the night of the concert was awaited I need not describe, nor of the papers teeming with anecdotes of the venerable virtuoso whose name betrayed his Asiatic origin. His great-grandchildren (who were also his managers) announced in their prospectus that their great-grandfather had never played in public before, and with, of course, the exception of his early masters, had never even played for anybody outside of his own family circle. Born in 1788, he first studied technics with the famous Clementi and harmony with Albrechtsberger. His parents early imbued him (by the aid of a club) with the idea of the extreme importance of time and its value, if rightfully used, in furthering technique. So, from five hours a day in the beginning he actually succeeded in practising eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, which commendable practice (literally) he continued in his later life.

Although he had only studied with one master, the Gospadin Bundelcund, as he was named, had been on intimate terms with all the great virtuosi of his day, and had heard Beethoven, Steibelt, Czerny, Woelfl, Kalkbrenner, Cramer, Hummel, Field, Hiller, Chopin, Mendelssohn, Liszt, Henselt, and also many minor lights of pianism whose names have almost faded from memory. Always a man of great simplicity and modesty, he retired more and more amidst his studies the older he grew, and even after his marriage he could not be induced to play in public, for his ideal was a lofty one, and though his children, and even his grandchildren, often urged him to make his debut, he was inflexible on the subject. His great-grandchildren, however, were shrewd, and, taking advantage of the aged pianist's increasing senility, they finally succeeded in making him promise to play at a grand concert, to be given at the capital of Laputa, and, despite his many remonstrances, he at last consented.

It goes without saying that the attendance at our National Opera House was one of the largest ever seen there. The wealth and brains of the capital were present, and all eagerly watched for the novel apparition that was to appear. The program was a simple one: the triple piano concerto of Bach, arranged for one piano by the Gospadin; a movement from the G minor concerto of Dussek; piano solos, _L'Orage_, by Steibelt; a fugue for the left hand alone, by Czerny, and a set of etudes after Czerny, being free transcriptions of his famous _Velocity Studies_, roused the deepest curiosity in our minds, for vague rumors of an astonishing technique were rife. And, finally, when the stage doors were pushed wide open and a covered litter was slowly brought forward by six dusky slaves and gently set down, the pent up feelings of the audience could not be restrained any longer, and a shout that was almost barbaric shook the hall to its centre.

An Echtstein grand piano, with the action purposely lightened to suit the pianist's touch, stood in the centre of the stage, and a large, comfortable looking high-backed chair was placed in front of it. The attendants, after setting the litter down, rolled the chair up to it, and then parting the curtains carefully, and even reverently, lifted out what appeared to be a ma.s.s of black velvet and yellow flax. This bundle they placed on the chair and wheeled it up to the piano and then proceeded to bring forth a quant.i.ty of strange looking implements, such as hand guides, gymnasiums, wires and pulleys, and placed them around the odd, lifeless looking ma.s.s on the chair. Then a solemn looking individual came forth and announced to the audience that the soloist, owing to his extreme feebleness, had been hypnotized previous to the concert, as it was the only manner in which to get him to play, and that he would be restored to consciousness at once and the program proceeded with.

There was a slight inclination on the part of the audience to hiss, but its extreme curiosity speedily checked it and it breathlessly awaited results. The doctor, for he was one, bent over the rec.u.mbent figure of the pianist and, lifting him into an upright position, made a few pa.s.ses over him and apparently uttered something into his ear through a long tube. A wonderful change at once manifested itself, and slowly raising himself on his feet there stood a gaunt old man, with an enormous skull-like head covered with long yellowish white hair, eyes so sunken as to be invisible, and a nose that would defy all compet.i.tion as to size.

After fairly tottering from side to side in his efforts to make a bow, the Gospadin (or, as you would say, Mister or Herr) Bundelcund fell back exhausted in his seat, and while a murmur of pity ran through the house his attendants administered restoratives out of uncanny looking phials and vigorously fanned him. By this time the audience had worked itself up to a fever pitch (at least eight tones above concert pitch) and nothing short of an earthquake would have dispersed it; besides the price of admission was enormous and naturally every one wanted the worth of his money. I had a strong gla.s.s and eagerly examined the old man and saw that he had long skinny fingers that resembled claws, a cadaverous face and an air of abstraction one notices in very old or deaf persons.

To my horror I noticed that the doctor in addressing him spoke through a large trumpet and then it dawned on me that the man was deaf, and hardly was I convinced of this when my right hand neighbor informed me that the Gospadin was blind also, and being feeble and exhausted by piano practice hardly ever spoke; so he was practically dumb.

Here was an interesting state of things, and my forebodings as to the result were further strengthened when I saw the attendants place the old man's fingers in the technique-developing machines that enc.u.mbered the stage, and vigorously proceeded to exercise his fingers, wrists, and forearms, he all the while feebly nodding, while two other attendants flapped him at intervals with bladders to keep him from going to sleep.

Again my right-hand neighbor, who appeared to be loquacious, informed me that the Gospadin's mercenary great-grandchildren kept him awake in this manner and thus forced him to play eighteen hours a day. What a cruelty, I thought, but just then a few m.u.f.fled chords aroused me from my thoughts and I directed all my attention to the stage, for the performance had at last begun.

Never shall I forget the curious sensation I experienced when the aged prodigy began the performance of the first number, his own remarkable arrangement for piano solo of the Bach concerto in D minor for three pianos, and I instantly discovered that the instrument on which he played had organ pedals attached, otherwise some of the effects he produced could not have been even hinted at. His touch was weird, his technique indescribable, and one no longer listened to the piano, but to one of those instruments of Eastern origin in which gla.s.s and metal are extensively used. The quality of tone emanating from the piano was _brittle_, so to speak; in a word, sounded so thin, sharp, and at times so wavering as to suggest the idea that it might at any moment break.

And then it made me indescribably nervous to see his talon-like fingers threading their way through the mazes of the concerto, which was a tax on any player, and though the three piano parts were but faintly reproduced, the arrangement showed ability and musicianship in the handling of it. But a vague, far-away sort of a feeling pervaded the whole performance, which left me at the end rather more dazed than otherwise.

During the uproarious applause that followed my neighbor again remarked to me that though the old man did not appear to be as much exhausted as he had antic.i.p.ated, still he feared the worst from this great strain of his appearing before such a public and under such exciting circ.u.mstances, and then becoming confidential he whispered to me that the agents for the Paul von Janko keyboard had approached the venerable pianist, but after inspecting the invention the latter had replied wearily that he was too old to begin "tobogganing" now. My neighbor seemed to be amused at this joke, and not until the orchestra had begun the tutti of the G minor concerto of Dussek (an intimate friend of the Gospadin's, by the way) did he cease his chuckling.