EXTRAVAGANCES IN SINGING AND PIANO-PLAYING.
(An Evening Party at Mr. Gold's.)
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Mr. Gold, the banker (fond of music).
Mrs. Gold (sings, and is an invalid.)
Mr. Silver, bookkeeper (formerly a singer with Strauss).
Mr. Pious, a friend of the family (a musical impostor, and a hypocrite generally).
Mr. Forte, a foreign piano virtuoso (of weak nerves).
Dominie, a piano-teacher.
Emma, his daughter.
(Mrs. Gold has just been singing in the modern Italian manner; suddenly alternating exaggerated high and low tones, given in a jerking manner, with inaudible pianissimo in the throat, and quavering on every note, with many ornaments, and always a quarter of a tone too flat. She sang all the four verses of "Fondly I Think of Thee" by Krebs.)
Dominie. Will you not go on, Mrs. Gold? The piano is a little too high, and you are obliged to accustom yourself a little to it.
Mrs. Gold. I cannot sing any more. That beautiful song has taken such hold of me, and I feel so badly. (Whispers to Dominie.) Mr. Forte did not accompany me well, either: sometimes he did not come in right, and played too feebly; and sometimes he improvised too much in playing, and overpowered my voice, which is a little weak just now.
Dominie (aside to Emma). What an evening of singing! Oh dear!
Mr. Gold (who has been earnestly talking about stocks all the evening in an adjoining room, rushes in, but rather late, after the close of the song, and impetuously presses his wife's hand). Marvellous! magnificent! delicious! wonderful! My dear, you are in excellent voice this evening. If Jenny Lind could only have heard you!
Mr. Pious. Charming! superb! how touching! There is a religious character in this piece, something holy about it! I beg of you, do sing that air by Voss, "True Happiness." That will make our enjoyment complete; it is truly ravishing! There is something divine in singing, and your expression, your feeling, Madam! You give yourself up so entirely to the composition!
(Mrs. Gold has already taken up "True Happiness," and can hardly wait while Mr. Forte murmurs off the introduction, quite after his own fancy, with a sentimental piano. Mr. Pious drops a tear at the close of the introduction, the four bars of which have been transformed into eight bars by the great virtuoso. During the tremulous, affected performance of "True Happiness," Mr. Pious rolls up his moistened eyes; and, at the end of the first verse, where the accompanist once more gives the reins to his fancy, he says, "I am speechless, I cannot find words to express my emotion!")
Dominie (aside to Emma). That you may call forged sentiment, the counterfeit of feeling. You hear now how one ought not to sing. For an earnest, true musician, such a warmth in singing is only empty affectation, disgusting, sentimental rubbish, and hollow dissimulation. You will, however, frequently meet with such amateur infelicities.
(Mrs. Gold has finished singing all the verses of "True Happiness," and seems now to have almost entirely recovered. Mr. Gold continues to converse about stocks in the adjoining room. Dominie remains with Emma at the end of the parlor, depressed and worried.)
Mr. Forte (keeps his seat at the piano, and says in French to Mrs. Gold). Madam, you have reached the climax of the beautiful in music. I count it one of the happiest moments of my artistic tour to be allowed to breathe out my soul at the piano, in the presence of one like yourself. What a loss, that your position must prevent you from elevating the German opera to its former greatness, as its most radiant star!
Mrs. Gold (by this time quite well). I must confess that Jenny Lind never quite satisfied me when she was here. She is, and must always remain, a Swede,—utterly cold. If she had been educated here, she would have listened to more passionate models than in Stockholm, and that would have given the true direction to her sensibility.
Mr. Forte. You are quite right; you have a just estimate of her. In Paris, where she might have heard such examples, she lived in perfect retirement. I was giving concerts there at the time; but she refused to sing in my concerts, and therefore she did not even hear me.
Mr. Silver (whom the excitement of the singing has at length reached). Do you feel inclined now, Madam, to execute with me the duet from "The Creation," between Adam and Eve?
Mrs. Gold. Here is "The Creation," but we will sing it by and by. Mr. Forte is just going to play us his latest composition for the left hand, and some of the music of that romantic, deeply sensitive Chopin.
Mr. Gold (rushes in from his stock discussion). Oh, yes! Chopin's B major mazourka! That was also played at my house by Henselt, Thalberg, and Dreyschock. Oh, it is touching!
All (except Mr. Silver, Dominie, and Emma). Oh, how touching!
Dominie (to his daughter). If he plays it in the same manner in which he accompanied "True Happiness," you will hear how this mazourka should not be played. It, by the way, is not at all touching: it gives quite boldly the Polish dance rhythm, as it is improvised by the peasants in that country; but it is, however, idealized after Chopin's manner.
(Mr. Forte plays several perilous runs up and down with various octave passages, all the time keeping his foot on the pedal; and connects with these immediately, and without a pause, the mazourka, which he commences presto. He played it without regard to time or rhythm, but with a constant rubato, and unmusical jerks. A few notes were murmured indistinctly pp., and played very ritardando; then suddenly a few notes were struck very rapidly and with great force, so that the strings rattled; and the final B major chord cost the life of one string.)
Mr. Gold. Excellent! bravissimo! What a comprehension of the piece! Such artistic performances make one even forget the stock-exchange!
Mrs. Gold. You agitate my inmost nerves! The English poet, Pope, holds that no created man can penetrate the secrets of nature; but you have penetrated the secrets of my soul. Now do play at once the F sharp minor mazourka, opus 6.
Mr. Pious. What a musical evening Mrs. Gold has prepared for us! What sublime sorrow lies in this production!
Mr. Silver (aside). What would Father Strauss say to this affected, unmusical performance, that bids defiance to all good taste?
Dominie. Mrs. Gold, it would be well to send for the tuner to replace this broken B string. The next one will break soon, for it is already cracked, and its tone is fallen.
Mr. Forte (with a superior air). It is of no consequence. That frequently happens to me; but I never mind it. The piano is a battle-field where there must be sacrifices.
Dominie (whispers to Emma). He thinks that if the sound is not musical, still it makes a noise; and tones out of tune produce more effect than those that are pure.
Emma. Where did he learn piano-playing?
Dominie. My child, he has not learned it. That is genius, which comes of itself. Instruction would have fettered his genius, and then he would have played distinctly, correctly, unaffectedly, and in time; but that would be too much like the style of an amateur. This uncontrolled hurly-burly, which pays no regard to time, is called the soaring of genius.
(Mr. Forte storms through various unconnected chords with the greatest rapidity, with the pedal raised; and passes without pause to the F sharp minor mazourka. He accents vehemently, divides one bar and gives it two extra quarter notes, and from the next bar he omits a quarter note, and continues in this manner with extreme self-satisfaction till he reaches the close; and then, after a few desperate chords of the diminished seventh, he connects with it Liszt's Transcription of Schubert's Serenade in D minor. The second string of the two-lined b snaps with a rattle, and there ensues a general whispering "whether the piece is by Mendelssohn, or Döhler, or Beethoven, or Proch, or Schumann," until finally Mr. Silver mentions Schubert's Serenade. Mr. Forte concludes with the soft pedal, which in his inspired moments he had already made frequent use of.)
Dominie (to Emma). You should never play in company, without mentioning previously what you are going to perform. You observe, as soon as the Serenade was mentioned, it put a stop to the guessing.
All (except Mr. Silver and Dominie). What a glorious performance! what an artistic treat!
Mrs. Gold. What spirituality in his playing!
Mr. Silver (asking Mr. Forte for information). I noticed, in the Serenade, you made only one bar of the two where it modulates to F major, in your rapid playing of the passage. Was that accidental?
Emma (aside). He ought to have played a little slower just there.
Mr. Forte. In such beautiful passages, every thing must be left to the suggestion of one's feelings. Perhaps another time I may make three bars, just as inspiration and genius may intimate. Those are æsthetic surprises. Henselt, Moscheles, Thalberg, and Clara Wieck do not execute in that manner, and consequently can produce no effect, and do not travel.
Dominie (to Emma). I hope that your natural taste and your musical education will preserve you from such preposterous extravagances.
Emma. Such playing makes one feel quite uncomfortable and worried. Probably that is what you call "devilish modern"?
Dominie. Yes.
Emma. But do people like it?
Dominie. Certainly: a great many people do. It has the superior air of genius, and sounds very original.
(Mrs. Gold has "The Creation" in her hand, and Mr. Silver leads her to the piano for the execution of the grand duet between Adam and Eve. Mr. Forte is exhausted, and Dominie plays the accompaniment. Mr. Silver sings intelligently and unaffectedly; Mrs. Gold, as before, but with still less regard to time, and more out of tune; but she tries to compensate for this by introducing very long ornaments at the fermate in the allegro, sung with her thin, piercing, over-strained voice; and she frequently rolls up her black eyes. At the conclusion, Mrs. Gold was led to the arm-chair, in great exhaustion of feeling.)
Mr. Pious. The divine art of music celebrates its perfect triumph in such interpretations of Haydn. Mrs. Gold, were those delicious fermate of your own invention?
Mrs. Gold. No: the charming Viardot-Garcia first introduced them as Rosina in "The Barber of Seville," and I had them written down by a musician in the theatre. But the employment of them in this duet is my own idea. I have already surprised and delighted a great many people with them in parties. The grand, rushing, chromatic scale with which the artistic Garcia astonishes every one, when acting the dreaming, fainting Amina in "La Somnambula," I introduce in the grand aria of the divine "Prophet;" rather timidly, it is true, for the boldness of a Garcia can only be acquired on the stage.
Emma. But, father, Jenny Lind sang in this duet in Vienna, quite simply, and with a pure religious spirit.
Dominie. That is the reason Mrs. Gold says that Jenny Lind sings too coldly, and ought to listen to more passionate models. But we will talk more about this at home.
Mrs. Gold. Now, Mr. Dominie, will not your daughter Emma play us some little trifle? Afterwards I will execute with Mr. Silver, "By thy loving kindness, O Lord," and a few duets by Kücken, and finish, if the company wishes, with the "Grâce" aria.
Dominie. Will you allow me first to replace this broken string?
(After Dominie has finished, Mr. Forte strides up to the piano, and plays his Etude for the left hand, with the right hand extended towards the company.)
Dominie (to Mr. Forte, after the conclusion of the piece). Would it not have been easier and more to the purpose, if you had used both hands?
Mr. Forte. We must forgive old people such pedantic observations. You entirely mistake my stand-point. Do you not see that I am standing with one foot in the future? Are you not aware that the public wish not only to listen, but to see something strange? Do you not perceive also that my appearance of ill-health produces a great musical effect?
Mr. Pious. Do you not feel the special charm and the fine effect which is produced by the left hand playing alone, and no less by the right hand extended?
Dominie. Is it so? Well, probably feeling has taken a false direction with me. I shall be obliged to accustom myself to such Parisian flights of sentiment.
(Emma played Chopin's Ballad in A flat major, after Dominie had previously announced it. The company were attentive.)
Mr. Forte (at the conclusion). Bravo! A very good beginning, Mr. Dominie. I am sorry that I am obliged to take leave now: I am obliged to go to two more soirées this evening, and have many letters of introduction to deliver.
Mr. Silver. Miss Emma, I have just heard that you play finely a great deal of Chopin's music. Let us hear his two latest nocturnes.
Mrs. Gold (to Emma). Have you heard the famous Camilla Pleyel play Kalkbrenner's charming D minor concerto? Do you not also play such brilliant music? for example, Döhler's beautiful, pathetic Notturno in D flat. Mr. X. lately played that to us enchantingly.
Emma. I know it. I am teaching it to my little sister, Cecilia.
Dominie. Will you allow her now to play Chopin's two nocturnes, Opus 48?
I will say nothing about the conclusion of the singing,—the "Grâce" aria. At midnight there was a grand supper, washed down with sweet wine, and seasoned with bitter recollections of this musical evening.