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Musical Courier 1897-05-12: Vol 34 Iss 897, 1897
58 lines. Read by computer on 23 September 2026. Printed page 5. See the scan on archive.org.
1THE MUSICAL COURIER.
3THE MUSICAL COURIER, 8 RUE CLÉMENT-MAROT, CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES, PARIS, April 12, 1897.
5THEY sat knees to back in the large, ill-smelling cattle pen which forms the upper gallery of the Châtelet Concert Hall, Paris; she, bright, vital, searching, with eyes of coal, and the dank mat of blue-black frizzing which forms the chevelure of so many French girls of her class; he, a mollusk; a soft creature, soft of head, of hand, of face, of eyes, of hat and tie and sit—all soft save the petty, pretty little ego within, which was hard as flint. Although about the same age, she was twenty years his senior by the working of some mysterious law of atavism. Both were well versed in music technics, each after his or her kind. They were typical French students of the genre "student"—musical, care-free as to future, pressed as to present, inured to sacrifice for art's sake, well trained, well taught, full of art feeling, expecting little and asking less of the world, kind, easily touched, gentle hearted, young—she a woman, he a man.
7Both were most horribly placed as to comfort. The poor girl could not see a thing of either stage or the hall below, nothing but the packed and sweltering terrace of humanity glowering in the gloom opposite. So closely wedged was she between the people on each side of her that she quite spoiled her only dress by sitting it into wrinkles for want of space to straighten it down smoothly, after the fashion of poor women. She busied herself practicing positions by which she might be able to see even ever so little of the artists after they should come upon the stage; sitting, standing, kneeling, pas moyens! Finally by getting upon one knee upon the hard, backless bank, clutching firmly two iron bars beside her, by taking off her hat and poking her head through after the fashion of a cow in a stall, and by leaning a little sidewise, and by praying that the people in front might not lean at the same time, she could catch a glimpse of the gilt tops of the harps at the off side of the stage, and thus she "sat" and conversed with him waiting for the performance to commence. She remained perfectly lady-like, gentle, polite and good humored, and managed to look even piquant and graceful as only a French girl would do under the circumstances.
9She was already very tired, having stood over an hour upon the sidewalk below, in order to be even as well off as she was, for, the seats not being numbered, first come first served, and many were worse off than she. So she sighed in gentle and philosophic reflection.
11"At least we can hear the beautiful music!" she said, sweetly, her head in the stocks.
13He in manly dignity folded his arms, perfectly unconscious of the situation, perfectly satisfied that everything was just exactly as it should be, having been always so, and launched out into making himself agreeable by remarking on the beauty of the salle, so Mooresque he found it, the doming so graceful, the frescoes so good, the mellow coloring so artistic. She mocked him politely and rallied him gracefully, telling him that, on the contrary, the old building was tout ce qu'il y a de plus laid, just about as homely as it was uncomfortable, which was all that needed to be said. For her part she could not understand how that Paris, the grandest city in all the whole world, could not have one decent place where one could listen to music without suffering. Evidently "traveled," she told of towns in the provinces where the theatres were of infinitely more importance than anything here, while in Geneva—and she described the sumptuous concert hall, adding the testimony of a cousin, who had been farther out than herself, even to London, where the condition of things was incapable of belief to a Parisian.
15He regarded her with a species of fright, his soft eyes timid and startled, as of a calf who has struck a pebble in a mouthful of clover, and mumbled something about stray taste, modern display and—enfin! and conversation turned as to why the hall was so full.
17With petty, unbiased chauvinism he spat out crossly that it was because of the presence of a stranger violinist of course. Paris was making a fool of herself over foreign talent. The girl quickly reminded him that last Sunday when Ysaye was there alone the house was not half so crowded, and that Pugno, who was French and a pianist, had quite as much to do with a house as Ysaye did; in fact that she had seen Pugno fill the house like that quite alone. For her part she was convinced that it did not matter two straws where anyone came from if only he were powerful. She did not say good, because worth was not always to be seen, but power, force, ability, real gift changed and forced everything before it; that nobody knew what he thought before power of any kind. She did not think anyone cared a sou whether one were French or not, but everybody cared about something new or great, especially something powerful. The calf twisted the pebble in his mouth and frowned and mumbled something about patriotism and—enfin. Besides, she said, the program was very attractive—Beethoven, Schumann, Bach.
19Yes, he found Bach and Beethoven all right and something of Schumann good, but he was glad there was no Brahms. Brahms, she said, was very fine just the same, and she was glad he was coming to be known and appreciated in France.
21Who knew Brahms, he would like to ask! Ask anybody if they play Brahms and they say: "Brahms, Brahms, oui, je crois, je sais—a few beauties, mais enfin!"
23"I should say there were 'beauties!' cried the girl, her gentleness flashing into star points. "Beauties, I should say there were!" and she called off on her too-used glove tips piece after piece, phrases, sections, passages, chamber music of infinite beauty and grandeur, analyzing the whys and wherefores of the judgment; in some cases with an analysis that few critics could boast. She described the master as a man whose sober, majestic dignity of character excluded the more romantic and passional strands of color, of which we had plenty elsewhere, but for that matter his work was splendidly colored just the same.
25The man expressed unconvinced perplexity by a complex twist of neck, head and shoulders, and kept his soft eyes glued to her face long after she had ceased speaking—not through admiration. She was only a student comrade, and the idea of admiring a woman for mental qualities never could occur to him, of course, but in a sort of unconscious hunger for larger development he leaned eagerly forward for nourishment for his own restricted mentality. The calf recognized a rich pasture, but, afraid of the newness of the outlook, simply stared. He next touched on the values of violinists, and put his foot in it once more by saying he found Sarasate heavy and dull in a certain composition.
27No, she sweetly corrected, scarcely hearing him, he must have been unfortunate. Sarasate was noted for lightness and elegance; indeed if he had a fault it was in that direction. Thomson was her idea of a violinist. Ysaye his. She found Thomson faultless. Ysaye might be more attractive perhaps, but Thomson she considered most true, most artistic, a real musician "scholar." Thomson played in a classic, Ysaye in a romantic fashion.
29She repeated this latter idea over and over in answer to his insistence as to what that might mean, but she spoke it in a perfunctory manner, as though some teacher had taught it to her, and it was an article of faith that she had not infused with her own vital thought. She did not say that one was a case of passion and power, the other of violin and power; that one man drew his bow across his nerves and his heart, the other across violin strings, but both in the right places and with right intention. Just the same he said Thomson had been criticised—yes, Thomson had been much criticised.
31"Bah!" she said; "criticised! Who cared anything for what critics said, common journalists who wrote their paragraphs before the concerts; stupid people for the most part and dishonest for the rest. If they knew anything they dared not say it, and if they said anything they did not know it—much anybody knew anything by what was criticised."
33He mumbled that sometimes and—enfin! and the two dropped into a discussion of study and composition, their art troubles and delights that was excessively interesting, and remarkable for its freedom from vanity, personal standard or mean spirit of any kind. She suddenly drew his attention to the program cover, a perfectly nude female figure kneeling on the top of a pillar, playing a violin. Always "artistic," he lauded the design, the classic outlines, the pose—enfin; and she asked him if as a violinist he did not remark the absurd position of the violin and bow in the hands of the unclad. He pooh-poohed such "practicality," spoke of art license, &c.
35No, but she could not see why things were so much that way, why a man who had talent enough to design anything at all should not have ambition enough to go to the most common violin or violin student to gain a technical knowledge, for the sake of the strength of his art, which to her lay largely in truth and accuracy. She did not see either why it was necessary to choose the face of Yvette Guilbert to represent the musical muse of an artistic association of the dignity of the Colonne Concert Company, now in its twenty-third year.
37He pursed up his mouth and looked unutterable things, shrugging out superior manly wisdoms through flabby shoulder curves, as the girl drew her head in from the stocks, fell back with a little fatigued sigh on the hard, backless bank, upholstered by a few wrinkles, and tried to decipher her program in the only way possible—by posing it against the light of one of the candelabras below, and reading through the paper!
39Brightness not forsaking her French spirit, however, she discovered in a commercial corner of the program "Le Cycle Berlioz" in large blue letters.
41"Tiens!" she cried, "quel sacrilège! Est-ce qu'on a nommé une bicyclette après notre maître."
43It took some seconds for her companion to discover the idea, and when he did there was no sign of a joke in it to him. He seriously pointed out to her that it was the advertisement of a musical library which had the entire set of Berlioz works in publication. She politely let him imagine that she had really been mistaken and that he had enlightened her.
45The musicians having by this time come upon the scene, she again resumed her stocks, and this time with such good effect that she discovered the droll habit Ysaye had of sitting among the orchestra and playing with them instead of waiting in the wings for his own numbers. For, sure enough, there he was like a serious schoolboy, perched on his stool in a back row gravely tuning his violin, and chatting over its neck to a member who, with his own pet already across his knees, was earnestly watching the Belgian's movements.
47Her companion had not of course yet seen him, but following the direction of her eyes was ready to jump out of his seat at the novelty. They both found it a very droll proceeding—the first point on which they quite agreed.
49Once the music began the couple were well enough agreed, however. They loved the music dearly. They knew it evidently every bit, noticed the slightest variations of light and shade and tempo and the vigor and dramaticism of the interpretations. They even hummed into certain knots finales of harmony, and more than once one or the other called off the changes of key through an entire movement, as one might name the red, blue and green of ribbons drawn before their eyes. They were equally capable in this evidently, for if one hesitated the fraction of a second the other half unconsciously filled the chord. And they loved it dearly; he, in his weak, unself-contained, self-indulgent, demonstrative fashion, wholly dependent upon others to certify to and share his enjoyment. He actually bothered her with his bowings and bobbings and starlings into her face, his exclamations and his manoeuvres en directeur from time to time with a very unmanicured forefinger. He was about to perform a passing commentary on the whys and wherefores of various effects, when she put her finger on her lips and showed him he was getting into the lap of his neighbor in his jouncings.
51As the music wonder grew and spread over the place she renounced sightseeing altogether, and packed into her little dark, tight corner grew stiller and stiller as the rallying glitter dropped out of her coal black eyes, and softness came into the corners of her hard, bread-winning mouth. She grew so still and cared so little about anybody that one wanted to go and shake hands with her. In all that was feeling and training, you see, these two people were similar. It was in the domain of individual development that the divergence came. In revolving the question, "Which is more capable, a man or a woman?" the answer must always remain:
53A capable woman is more capable than an incapable man.
55***
57The Bach chaconne was played six times this week in Paris, once at a musical at the home of Mr. Richard Hammer, the violinist, where conversation turned upon the chaconne on account of its quite excellent rendering the evening before at a concert given by Mme. Ambre-Bouichère. The violinist explained how that the word "chaconne" represented a form of dance, as minuet or gavot; how that the great tone cathedral, representing about all there was of harmony, science of musical beauty and of all known technical violin difficulty, was built upon some eight simple measures, which remained the object of admiration and veneration to musicians during the centuries. Mendelssohn, he continued, had written an accompaniment to it which was worthy of it, Mendelssohn being impregnated with Bach from infancy; that Schumann had likewise written a less exemplary but also beautiful background; that it had been orchestrated, he believed, by Raff, and that a piano arrangement by Raff was also much played in concert. The interesting chat was finished by the master's taking out his violin and reverently placing it under his chin, and thus—his gentle eyes closed over the tender, spiritual lights inside, on his face that peculiar ex-
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