Scan 22
Musical Courier 1902-02-12: Vol 44 Iss 1142, 1902
45 lines. Read by computer on 22 September 2026. Printed page 23. See the scan on archive.org.
1ments are in sharp contrast with the very material side of his play. More closely examined Kubelik's face stands the test of comparison with—say Chopin, or the early de Musset. The brow is delicately modeled, the planes of the face clear notations of a sensitive spirit, though difficult to decipher, difficult to move. The surprising part is to come; when he plays he is not a poet; not even the exponent of the usual lyric feeling that we find developed in so many violinists. Kubelik is a youthful César Thomson, a man for whose abilities I entertained an extravagant admiration. The Bohemian, like the Belgian artist, disdains the appeal sentimental, aiming at the transcendental in technique. And the most curious thing of all is that the public has taken to Kubelik—just the very opposite of what I would have predicted; for it stands to reason that his extraordinary technics cannot have any message, cannot be realized, understood. Perhaps my brilliant English brother, Edward Baughan, is correct in his explanation of this knotty psychology of the mob: movements, complex, rhythmic, rapid movements hypnotize the crowd, which dimly guesses that something out of the usual is occurring. Add to this the winning individuality, winning as a woman who simply stands still and gains your sympathy without speaking and—perhaps—you have one of the secrets of the Kubelik-ian success. His talent is enormous, even if not emotional; and it may become so in a year or a week; then he will not play with such classic beauty of tone, such purity of intonation, such benign repose. Your soul cannot be tempest tossed, and your nerves steady at the same time!
3But Florizel Reuter! His is another case altogether. You do not wonder so much at his technics, facile as they are, as at the emotional precocity displayed by him in cantilena. He may smear and rattle over his passage work, and he often does; but give him a bit of melody and he says something after the style of an experienced man. How comes he by this ripeness, this fullness of expression? Is it healthy for a lad to bare thus the secrets of his tender little soul? Or it is only a trick of the nerves, the ears, the imitative faculty of a phenomenal being? We don't know; no psychologist knows. And the thing is disquieting; as if some wondering disembodied Djinn had entered the soul of Florizel and directed its very motions. Henry James in his matchless "The Turn of the Screw" treats of this subject in a rather horrifying manner.
5The little Reuter has had excellent masters. Beginning with Max Bendix he has just left the training of Henri Marteau. His bowing is agile and often better than his little fingers, which become flurried and uncertain in velocity passages. Yet it is amazing to see him straddle octaves, double thirds and sixths, dash off arpeggios and rattle staccati like stinging hail. He played the Vieuxtemps E major Concerto, some Paganini caprices and the "Airs Russes" of Wieniawski from memory, and with the intensity and attitude of a seasoned violinist. He has style, there is no denying that; and if his tone is small it is sweet. It must not be forgotten, either, that he uses a three-quarter sized instrument.
7The test of closed eyes was proposed in Florizel's case. It is hardly a fair one. Try it on some of our favorite artists and watch the effect—for the eyes do aid the ears. With De Pachmann it would be an excellent device, for then we could hear without being disturbed.
9I never saw a Chopinzee,
10I never wish to see one;
11But if I do, I'm sure I would
12Rather see than be one.
14Thus might my old friend Gelett Burgess sing of Chopinzees and other keyboard wrigglers and wrestlers.
16Miss Lucy Gates, a young lady from Utah with a good natural voice, sang numbers by Verdi and others. There was applause, ill-timed, vociferous for the boy, who took it all as a matter of course. And this is to be deplored, as are his little airs and graces, his naughty smile of self-approbation. Yet a boy to be watched! He has great possibilities. Adolph Glose accompanied most sympathetically.
18Josef Hofmann is a study of a young man who has won a victory over himself. That he does not smoke, drink or flirt are matters of little moment. I am not sure but that he is fond of cigarettes and an occasional glass of champagne. He is a model son, and that is a gratifying spectacle in an age when "the old man" is sent to Coventry after his young hopeful puts on "pants." When I see a son love and revere his father, though he may often rebel inwardly, I feel that there is hope. I don't mean the youth who says "Yes, Papasha!" and then shakes his fist at the Venerable Parent's back. I have never met Jozio Hofmann since he was the little Jozio at old Chickering Hall; but we all know that his life is one full of activities and that at a period when most young men are fooling time to the top of their bent this clever Pole is inventing, practicing, thinking. He will enjoy a future, a much more satisfactory one than his past. And how sensible was his father to withdraw him from public life at the most critical moment! He is not spoiled, as the phrase is; and we should be grateful for that. The spoiled pianist and violinist and singer is "in our midst" in disturbing numbers. When you say your prayers at night, O my brethren and sisters of the keyboard, bow and larynx, pray for common sense. It is the rarest gift of the jealous gods, who sometimes delight in dowering with it inartistic folk. And that's sheer waste; they don't need it half so much as does the artist.
20Now, Josef Hofmann, with all his gifts, artistic and intellectual, is sensible; he is well balanced; therefore he may be happy some day.
22I hear that he is enjoying unusual success in the Far West.
24Do you know that Fritz Kreisler plays the piano almost as well as he does the violin?
26Vance Thompson sailed last week with Mrs Thompson for Paris. He will return before 1903.
28The Paderewski fever is in the air. Already "Manru" is being "explained," and I notice any quantity of red haired girls about, but few white horses. Was ist los mit dem Schimmel?
30I wish we would all stop calling pianists, violinists, singers and oboe players "geniuses." Granting them as much talent as you will, no reproductive artist is a genius. Genius is creative; it creates religions, states, ideas, wars, flying machines, pictures, poems, tragedies, symphonies, statues and cathedrals. The player and singer or critic interprets works of art made by others. Paderewski is a remarkable pianist, as was Liszt; but it is not the playing or the memory of their playing that will constitute them geniuses. The actor mimes the words and attitudes of the dramatic poet, and even granting him the temperament of a Salvini or a Duse he is not a genius.
32Despite cabled reports Gabriele d'Annunzio's play, "Francesca da Rimini," is a financial success. The Academy is my authority. At Florence and Naples one must secure seats days in advance.
34Very high prices for modern books were obtained at the sale of the Raisin library at the Hotel Drouot in Paris recently. Bourget's Pastels, with water colors by various artists, brought $600; Dumas' "Trois Mousquetaires," 1894, on China paper, with Maurice Leloir drawings, $200; Voltaire's "Zadig," 1893, $460; About's "Les Mariages de Paris," 1897, $280; Guy de Maupassant's "Contes Choisis," 1891, $200; Flaubert's "Salammbô," 1901, with illustrations by Rochegrosse, $150, and "Le Legende de St. Julien," 1895, with water colors by Luc Olivier Merson, $185.
36Why, asks James Douglas in the London Star, do men write better poetry than women? He confesses his inability to answer the question. None of the conventional explanations, he says, is convincing. Sex servitude is hardly sufficient to account for the long, low average of ages. Men have beaten their music out in spite of the bondage as bitter as the bondage of womanhood. Must we fall back on the Tennysonian theory that woman is the lesser man? It is a poor, purblind theory, and, for my part I revolt against it, for it conflicts with the evidence of my own sense. Rather than accept it, I prefer to regard the enigma as insoluble. Perhaps the true solution is to be found in the innate self-abnegation which is the prominent trait of women. She idealizes man as lover, husband, father, brother, son, and in the intensity of her idealism she wills to be less in order that she may seem to be greater. To her any form of superiority over man is a sub-conscious blasphemy against the divine illusion of love.
38I wonder what the Woman's Page will say to the last few lines?
40Some of the finest examples of English wit owe their sparkle to paranomasia or punning, remarks a London writer. Provided that a lady of Swift's acquaintance set down her violin, and, removing her mantua, placed it near by, merely by purest accident, without any prearrangement, his remark with which he called attention to the juxtaposition of the two objects was the very cream of paranomasia. "See," said he, quoting glibly from Virgil, "Mantua vae miserae nimium vicina Cremona." So she took it away and some one said, "Whew! Isn't Dean Swift?"
42From Bucharest comes the startling news that the trade of letters has fallen into such disrepute that two of the leading contemporary writers have been compelled to open beer saloons in order to eke out a livelihood. One of them, Carigiale, a popular Roumanian playwright, was recently called upon for a speech at the conclusion of the first night performance of his latest play at the National Theatre. He said: "Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your applause, but it won't keep body and soul together; neither, apparently, will fiction and the drama. If you wish to give me material support come across the street to my saloon and have a drink." It is recorded that the entire audience took the hint, and that since then the playwright has been well supplied with funds.
44Those who are constantly cavilling at the underpayment of playwrights and authors in this country will find this condition of affairs interesting when compared with the present conditions in the New York literary mart. One of our playwrights, a man still in the early thirties, has already amassed a fortune which is said to reach six figures. The librettist of some of our popular operas has grown so well to do from his royalties that he is not only enabled to live in ease and elegance, but has accumulated, at great expense, perhaps the finest collection of literary memorabilia in this country. We sympathize heartily with Carigiale and his Roumanian friends, but there seems a course still more congenial than saloon keeping, which is still open
The computer misreads some letters and numbers. Where a name matters to you, read the scan.