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Musical Courier 1894-08-29: Vol 29 Iss 755, 1894
104 lines. Read by computer on 21 September 2026. Printed page 9. See the scan on archive.org.
1out the spurious children of Liszt! The men and women who lay claim to this distinguished man, said claim existing only in their diseased vanity. A man once said to me, "I'd rather be the natural son of a man of genius than the child of wedded parents." I called his attention to certain statistics of Galton and Schopenhauer, which reveal that genius is seldom if ever bequeathed. Just look at Wagner's case—and then Liszt has left no lineal geniuses. Cosima is a gifted "crank," but beyond garnering the shekels, seems to have inherited nothing but her father's flightiness.
3By this sign ye shall know the child of Liszt. By the warts on his face and the technic in his fingers. This of course doesn't apply to "Wart-nosed Mike," the nimble fingered pickpocket, who just got ten months for stealing an automatic piano.
5I will take up this fruitful subject again. If any of your friends or acquaintances happen to claim paternity of Liszt send me his name, address and general description, and don't forget the warts.
7Liszt pupils are barred. I have already my little list.
9They tell a funny story down in Philadelphia about a living picture exhibition that was introduced in one of the operas given by the Pauline Hall Opera Company.
11I have forgotten the name of the particular picture, but it was one in which a live dog, probably bribed by the sight of a bone back of the frame, had to sit still for at least a quarter of a minute. One night during the last hot spell somebody whistled in the gallery—a bewitching whistle that went directly to the heart of the canine. It was too much for the dog, and, turning around, he gave a spring out of the picture, and advanced to the footlights, barking furiously.
13Then a voice, probably issuing from the same mouth as the misleading whistle, was heard to say: "It's on a strike! Pauline, why don't you pay your dog his wages?" There was an universal scream, and the curtain was hastily lowered.
15Canicular shrieks a moment later told in no uncertain accents that the wages were being paid.
17Rudolph Aronson is, as you very well know, working heart and soul for the Johann Strauss monster testimonial. He is simply ubiquitous and buttonholes every man, woman and child that he knows. The affair will be a great success. Recently he went to Koster & Bial's and interviewed Maestro Oscar Hammerstein. He told him the purpose of his visit was to raise subscriptions for the Strauss testimonial fund. Oscar replied in his heartiest tones: "What, help a brother composer along in a matter of this sort! Well, I should say I would!" And he did.
19This from "Punch:"
21Madame la Baronne (who will speak English)— "And tell me, Mistress Brown, your clevere 'usbann, who 'ave a so beautiful talent—is he yet of ze Royal Academy?"
23Our Artist's Wife (who will speak French)—"Oh, non, Madame, helas! seulement il est pendu cette année, vous savez!"
25Madame la Baronne (relapsing into her native language)—"Oh—Madame—quelle affreuse nouvelle!"
27Says last week's "Town Topics": "There is nothing new in the statement that bicycling is all the rage in Paris, although the fact that the swell ladies' tailors in the French capital cannot keep up with the orders showered upon them for frocks suited to the wheel may come as a bit of fresh intelligence to most people. What is less generally known, however, is that M. Jean de Reszké has taken to the silent and inexpensive iron steed, and that throughout last season he was wont to leave the Continental Hotel in London at 6 A. M. daily and glide over the wood and concrete roads for two hours, rain or shine. M. Lasalle has long been an expert on the bicyclette, but M. Jean de Reszké's accession to the army of cyclists was only recorded a few weeks ago. Experiments are now progressing that may result in the construction of a wheel that will stand the strain of that admirable artist and amiable gentleman colloquially known as Brother Edouard, although no lively apprehensions as to the delicacy of the basso's health are entertained by his friends."
29When Kate Rolla returns from Europe she will go into light opera. She did not go to Marienbad as was reported, but is reducing her adiposity in London.
31I saw Will Pruette yesterday, larger than life and twice as handsome, holding on determinedly to a large roll of music paper. "It's the score of 'Rob Roy,'" he cried out to me, "and you can't see it. But I don't mind telling you that I have got a beautiful entrance song." "Rob Roy" is said to be the best thing that De Koven and Smith have yet given us. It's a curious fact that, like Gilbert and Sullivan, these collaborators do indifferent work when they are not working together.
33Although Della Fox is no longer with the Pine Tree of Comic Opera, His Lengthship Mr. De Wolf Hopper, the company is not without a fox. But it is a four footed one and is fleeter than Della. It will be used in the great scene in "Dr. Syntax," at the Broadway Theatre next Monday night. This scene will consist of a genuine fox hunt in the British fashion, with a pack of dogs, chasing Master Reynard in full cry.
35It will be no make-believe chase, either. The fox is a vicious, snappy little fellow, and only the other day gave an impertinent dog a lesson it will not soon forget.
37The night watchman of the theatre owns a pleasant, cross-eyed pup, with side whiskers neatly combed in the Dundreary fashion. After a two minute interview with Mr. Hopper's fox the pup looked like a door mat struck by lightning. Mr. Stevens has given strict orders that the brute be not overfed, so we may expect a good race on the night of the 3d. Mr. Hopper is hard at work trying to get the proper British pronunciation for "Yoicks" and "Tallyho."
39In a recent life of Bismarck the following enecdote is told:
41"In 'Prince Bismarck and the Women,' Dr. Adolph Kohut has preserved the picture which caused the only scandal ever associated with the old Chancellor's life. The picture is a photograph of Bismarck and Pauline Lucca, as they were in the Austrian summer resort, Ischl, twenty-nine years ago. The singer had made her name and Bismarck was supposed to be as great as a statesman well could be in those days. As he stepped from the door of his hotel one morning he found the little prima donna begging him to accompany her to the photographer's.
43"But I am waiting to have my dispatches deciphered," he protested.
45"Let the dispatches wait," replied the singer, and the dispatches waited.
47After Lucca had had several sittings and Bismarck two she exclaimed:
49"A magnificent idea, Your Excellency! We must be photographed together."
51Thus it came that a week later the visitors at Ischl found facing from every shop window the plump features of Lucca and the rugged countenance of Prussia's Minister-President. The news spread at once from Vienna to Berlin and from Paris to St. Petersburg that the invincible Bismarck had been entrapped by the wily Lucca. Just what Bismarck heard from home at this time will probably be carried unrevealed with him to his grave. From all his old Lutheran friends in Germany, however, he received letters of warning, regret and exhortation, which soon moved him to have the supply of offending pictures cut off short. "If I had foreseen for an instant how much pain this trivial incident would cause my many true friends," he wrote to Pastor Andre in reply to a moral lecture from him, "I should have got myself out of the camera's range quickly enough." Never again, Bismarck assured his friends, would he let his picture be taken with a woman, and he has kept his word. Most of the Lucca-Bismarck photographs were bought up and destroyed. To-day hardly a dozen of them would be found the world over. Some of Bismarck's friends think that he will hardly be grateful to Dr. Kohut for reviving, with this picture, the only scandal that ever touched his name.
53Emma Eames and her husband, Julian Story, are at Vallombrosa in the hills near Florence for a month's rest. Mr. Story's father, the famous W. W. Story, the sculptor-poet, has his villa at this charming spot. Eames is in the best of health.
55From the "Illustrated American" I clip the following interesting fantasy by Helen Corinne Bergen, called "Paderewski: a Retrospect:"
57A mind for fancies? Yes! And sometimes fancies come as fairies, tripping into view.
59It was a colored cut I first saw. His hair was very yellow and his eyes were blue. The yellow mustache drooped over a well-shaped mouth. A widower and a musician. Mon Dieu, but it is romantic!
61Where is he?
63Ah, I see, yet in Paris. But no, he comes, yes, he comes to America—and I, Heaven be praised! I am in America and—yes—I will remain here.
65A concert! Ah, I love music. Music has power, a wonderful power. Will we all go wild over him, the golden-haired widower? Is it press agent or reality? I shudder, I grow pale, I gasp. If it is only press agent I shall die, for my romance will remain but a cocoon. My golden-haired musician come! May the minutes fly, may it be reality!
67It is very strange to be moved by a poem—or a piece of music—or a weird fancy; it is a strange power a day-dream exerts. I pinned his picture on the wall and waited.
69The weeks fled—he had come, he was in this very city. I seized a pencil and paper, and went to interview him. His secretary told me he would tear his hair if disturbed at that hour.
71"Tell him," I said, "that I"—giving my name—"desire to see him." And I brought down my foot gently but firmly.
73"I cannot now, but I will try and arrange for you to meet him. But interview me instead."
75"If I must content myself so. But you are not to forget the promised interview. Thank you, I will sit down, yes. Does M'sieur like olives?"
77The secretary looked at me aghast. I repeated my question.
79"I do not think he does—I cannot say for certain."
81"Now you ask a question, Mein Herr."
83"Ach Gott, I cannot. It is you must ask and I must answer."
85"You see, Mein Herr, I cannot interview you satisfactorily—you are incompetent. I must see M'sieur, the pianist. Aufwiedersehen."
87I left him staring.
89It was night—a divine night. The starlight got tangled in the ivy on the church and glimmered like golden hair. My eyes saw golden hair in the moonlight and in the winter flowers. The statue of Martin Luther by the altar was white, and it seemed to me he wore a golden wig.
91We went into the church. The train of my dress was golden plush, it glided after me noiselessly; I glanced back over my shoulder, I loved the golden gleam, like his hair, like his hair.
93The orchestra set up a jargon. Oh, it was pitiful, so unintelligible—so far away—till a pause, and a pause, and he came, a reality, and the press agent was vindicated. Ah! what hair—ah! what firm, white hands! Oh! how my soul went out to him, and when he flopped his golden head my heart leaped up and then fell down!
95"Paderewski! Paderewski!" I cried, and the crowd took it up and echoed, "Paderewski!"
97Let there be low music and turn down the lights. Deepen the shadows and put a tremolo on the big bass viol.
99Shattered idols—faded roses—ashes of cigarettes—and yellow of dispatches—like his hair—like his waving hair.
101Oh, welladay!
103And if he did lean over the banister so, when I sat
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