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Musical Courier 1894-11-21: Vol 29 Iss 767, 1894
69 lines. Read by computer on 20 September 2026. Printed page 9. See the scan on archive.org.
1be said of Beethoven. We know that to play the viola part in a quartet, then dash off a Liszt polonaise on the piano, and afterward sing a Schumann song is very fascinating, but this versatility is dearly earned.
3The late Philip Gilbert Hamerton, a man of generous culture and a man who knew his French grammar, was in the habit of asserting that a man or woman could not master more than one language in a lifetime. This sounds rather paradoxical, but in the sciolist's sense Hamerton was right. Not the colloquial jargon, but the absolute knowledge of a language is given only to the ardent student of philology. And so is it with an instrument. Ask a great violinist like César Thomson, a man whose technic is marvelous, and he will answer you that he despairs of ever reaching his ideals. Speak to Rafael Joseffy and you will discover that he studies with the reverence of a neophyte. His goal still seems unattainable. And these men are acknowledged masters of their craft. And so it is and so it ever will be. We dilly-dally too much, we lay waste our time and opportunities, we do not concentrate enough, and so our culture, musical and otherwise, is half hearted and shallow. Better play one instrument well than a half dozen indifferently. The usual excuse made by amateurs who trifle with the piano, violin or flute is that they do not intend to become professionals.
5Between the point at which the artist begins and the amateur ends there is a wide gulf. There is little danger of anyone unconsciously drifting into virtuosity. To become one requires an absorption, a devotion, an intensity of temperament and a capacity for severe labor that is seldom encountered. Concentration we then urge upon our readers and the avoidance of diffuseness. Stick to the instrument you have elected as your own and master its intricacies. Do not fear that you will become narrow by so doing. Plenty of reading and acquaintance with cultured people will soon remedy that. A man's company proclaims his habits of mind. Naturally a violinist should know the viola, but that is no reason why he need waste time on the 'cello. Concentrate, concentrate, and again concentrate!
7CHOPIN AND TENNYSON.
9A WRITER in a musical monthly published in Philadelphia made the following comparison between Chopin and Tennyson:
11Chopin is without dispute the Tennyson of the piano. The same depth, warmth and delicacy of feeling vitalize every line, the same polish, fineness of detail, and symmetry of form, the same exquisitely refined yet by no means effeminate temperament, are seen in both.
13Each shows us perfect passion, beyond the ken of common men, without a touch of brutality, intense and vehement emotion, with never a hint of violence in its betrayal, expressed in dainty rhythmic numbers as polished and symmetrical as if that polish and symmetry were their only raison d'être. Superficial observers, fixing their attention on the pre-eminent delicacy, tenderness, elegance and grace of their manner and matter, regard them as exponents of these qualities merely, and deny them broader, stronger, sterner characteristics.
15Never was a grosser wrong done true artists. No poet and no composer is more profound, passionate and intense than Tennyson and Chopin, and none so rarely pens a line that is devoid of genuine feeling. Both had the heart of fire and tongue of gold. Tennyson wrote the modern lyrics of his language and Chopin the model lyrics of his instrument for all posterity.
17The validity of comparisons of this sort depends largely on the temperament of the writer. To many of us Tennyson did not voice in an ideal manner the cry of his generation. Indisputably great he was as an artist, but he was more remote, more detached, more aristocratic than Browning or even Shelley. As Henri Taine in his matchless analysis of Tennyson in "English Literature" justly remarks: "Tennyson represents the English ideals of repose, refinement, abhorrence of conflict, spiritual or physical; and above all he worships the aristocracy and displays reverence for the feudal spirit, incarnate in British political institutions."
19Chopin, despite his obvious refinement, hated tyranny, was a democrat "au fond," and his music, his best music, is full of spiritual revolt and longings that make comparisons with Tennyson far fetched. Rather to Shelley, that spirit of fire, flame and rebellion, should we look for spiritual kinship for Chopin. Chopin and Shelley, Schumann and Browning, although even here comparisons may be strained. Taine, furthermore, compared Tennyson to Alfred De Musset, and rather to the detriment of the English poet.
21The Chopin we are beginning to know, the new Chopin, was a rebel in every sense of the word. His innate delicacy of temperament did not prevent his virility from asserting itself in no uncertain tone. He is the poet of passion, the poet of Poland, the unhappy, devastated Poland of his time. His soul-life, mirrored in his music, is torn and racked with agonizing doubts, perplexities, fierce angers and joys. In his cry is crystallized all the suffering of his oppressed race. He died martyr to it, for his sensitive body could no longer withstand the fierce struggle for perfect expression. Tennyson, the measured, cautious, conservative Tennyson, summered at Farringford, on the Isle of Wight, and saw the world go by while he noted curiously its passion and pain. He was in it, not of it.
23RACONTEUR
25THE HOUSE OF THE ORGAN-POINT.
26"All hope abandon, ye who enter here"
28HE pushed away his coffee impatiently.
30"Of course if you will insist on preaching I must leave you. It's a new rôle for you," he said rather roughly.
32"Oswald," said I, "you needn't take me up that way; I'm not preaching, I'm playing the part that a friend should in a case of this kind, and——"
34"The only thing you can play?" he interrupted.
36"That's all right, my boy! Don't flaunt your virtuosity under my nose. I'm not a bull, to become enraged when red is the color."
38"Go on!" he replied in a resigned manner and reconsidered his rejected coffee.
40"Oswald, what is the matter with you? Come, be frank with me! You haven't touched your fiddle for months, you don't go out any more with your friends. Are you in debt, are you in trouble, are you in love? Stop a moment"—for he had begun scowling again—"I don't wish to pry into your private affairs, but you owe your most intimate friend some sort of explanation of your strange conduct; besides, you look very badly, old man! Your skin is like the "Yellow Book," and your expression suggests Aubrey Beardsley's best manner." I stopped for want of breath.
42Oswald smiled, rather contemptuously, I thought, at my watery similes, but held his peace. He drank up his coffee in several gulps and ordered another cup. So did I.
44We were sitting in the smoking room of the Vienna Café. The long room was almost deserted. It was too late for luncheon and too early for tea. In a corner were Anton Seidl and Dr. Dvorák, their heads close together over a manuscript score. The Slavic composer was showing the Hungarian conductor some new music of his own. Happy folk, thought I; at least they have an interest in life, while here is Oswald, one of the greatest of violin virtuosi, an unhappy, sulking wretch, and for no possible reason that I could see.
46When Oswald reached the age of seven his talent for the fiddle was so marked that he was allowed to have his own way, and the schooling the lad received was mostly on four strings. Five years afterward he attracted the attention of some rich people—music lovers—and he was sent abroad. In five years more he was Joachim's favorite pupil, and three years later he was hailed by the critics as the successor to Wienawski. Never had there been such a brilliant, daring talent, never such an interesting personality. He had the tenderness of a woman and the fire of hell in his play. His technic was supreme, and when he reached us here we all went mad. I was an old boyish friend of his, and his handsome face glowed with pleasure when I called in my capacity of music reporter at his hotel. He embraced me and played for me. God! how the fellow played, and a mere youth without beard or guile! We became inseparable and then he traveled, and his name was known the length of the land.
48Oswald was a man who never drank. His one dissipation was coffee, and he also smoked, but not furiously. The women who sought him he treated with distinguished courtesy, but he never made love, and managed to escape all entanglements. Then came the change.
50I first noticed it in his playing. At the last Philharmonic concert he played Bruch's G minor concerto. The first movement was listlessly given, the slow movement sounded tepid for Oswald, although faultlessly phrased, and the last movement actually lacked brio. What ailed the young man? The critics declared that he was not in good form, probably sick, or else worn out by reason of the stress and strain of the season. But I suspected some other and more dangerous cause.
52After months of despondency and mysterious disappearances, I caught Oswald at the Vienna Café and put the question to him.
54After his third cup of coffee he brightened up a bit, and began rolling a cigarette slowly. I watched him carelessly, but nevertheless closely. His face looked worn, his color was awful and his eyes lacked lustre. His handsome nose, pure Greek in line, was pinched and his mop of curls was disordered and draggled. He was evidently having a hard time. It was most certainly not any common form of dissipation. At last he roused himself and looked at me almost piteously. It was the silent cry of a man going down, down, and whom no one could save. Involuntarily I put out my hand and caught his arm. It was so unpremeditated, and he so well understood its meaning, that he sobbed in his throat and then turned his head away from me.
56The silence lay about us thickly for some minutes. Then I said to the sore stricken man:
58"Oswald, your face recalls to me one of those lost souls met midway in his mortal life by Dante, the dreamer of dreams."
60"And I am a lost soul, irrevocably lost, and because of my cursed perversity. Why does music lead us to such strange alleys—my God! why?" He was, I saw, keyed up to a dangerous pitch of intensity, so I forbore further questions and we drifted aimlessly toward theatreland and then separated for the night.
62Naturally I thought much about Oswald's case. Vicious he was not. There was no love affair that I knew of. Once the notion of hypnotic possession suggested itself, but was dismissed. The funny part of the affair was his absolute relinquishment of violin playing in public or private. He had an absolute horror of music, and never went to concert or opera. His long absence from his lodgings also alarmed me. I finally made up my mind that somebody was leading him astray, and that I would play the difficult rôle of a detective spy upon him. I met him several months later looking gaunt, yellow and rather shabby. Then the solution of the problem presented itself. Like some ardent temperaments, Oswald had tasted of that deadly drug which is admired of the unspeakable Turk. He was an eater of opium. I taxed him with it. As we slowly walked down town we stopped under an electric light, for it was a drear, dismal November night—a night full of smoldering mists and shadows. Oswald spoke faintly:
64"You accuse me of the opium habit. If I were a victim to the drug I would be a thrice blessed man. Alas! it is so much worse."
66Completely mystified, I walked with the unfortunate violinist. He took my arm and seemed to be feeble. I asked him if he had eaten that day. He had, he said; his malady was not a physical one. We had left Union square far behind us and had reached the neighborhood of Astor place." Unconsciously I clung to Oswald, and only when we turned down the long, dark street whereon stands the library did I notice our whereabouts. Oswald walked with the air of a man for whom corporeal things had no longer meanings. When we reached the lower end of the illy lighted street I called his attention to the fact that we were walking aimlessly. He turned to me, and after one long look he took my elbow and guided me up the steps of a low-sized building which stood well in the shadow. He did not ring the bell, but knocked with something metallic, a key probably, and at once the door was quickly and silently opened and we stood in a hallway, which was full of the violent rays from a red lamp which stood at the other end. I never felt such repugnance for a place before. If I could I would have rushed out, but Oswald barred the way, and as he stood regarding me with sad, strange eyes, I felt firmly convinced that I was dealing with a crazy man.
68"Welcome," said Oswald in vibrant accents, "welcome to the House of the Organ-Point!" Then I
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