A COLLEGE FOR CRITICS
Yes, it was indeed a hot, sultry afternoon, and as the class settled down to stolid work, even Mr. Quelson shifted impatiently at the blackboard, where he was trying to explain to a young pupil from Missouri that Beethoven did not write his oratorio, The Mount of Olives, for Park and Tilford. It was no use, however, the pupil had been brought up in a delicatessen foundry and saw everything musical from the comestible viewpoint.
The sun blazed through the open oriel windows at the western end of the large hall, and the class inwardly rebelled at its task and thought of cool, green grottoes with heated men frantically falling over the home-plate, while the multitude belched bravos as Teddy McCorkle made three bases. Instead of the national game the class was wrestling with figured bass and the art of descant, and again it groaned aloud.
Mr. Quelson faced his pupils. In his eyes were tears, but he must do his duty.
"Gentlemen," he suavely said, "the weather is certainly trying, but remember this is examination day, and next week you, that is some of you, will go out into the great world to face its cares, to wrestle for its prizes, to put forth your strength against the strength of men; in a word, to become critics of music, and to represent this college, wherein you have imbibed so much generous and valuable learning."
He paused, and the class, which had pricked up its ears at the word "imbibe," settled once again to listen in gloomy silence. Their dignified preceptor continued.
"And now, gentlemen of the Brahms Institute, I hasten to inform you that the examining committee is without, and is presently to be admitted. Let me conjure you to keep your heads; let me beg of you to do yourself justice. Surely, after five years of constant, sincere, and earnest study you will not backslide, you will not, in the language of the great Matthewson, make any muffs." Professor Quelson looked about him and beamed benignly. He had made a delicate joke, and it was not lost, for most sonorously the class chanted, "He's a jolly good fellow," and in modern harmonies. Their professor looked gratified and bowed. Then he tapped a bell, which sounded the triad of B flat minor, and the doors at the eastern end of the hall parted asunder, and the examining committee solemnly entered.
It was an august looking gang. Two music-critics from four of the largest cities of the country comprised the board of examination, with a president selected by common vote. This president was the distinguished pianist and literator, Dr. Larry Nopkin, and his sarcastic glare at the pupils gave every man the nervous shivers. Funereally the nine men filed by and took their seats on the platform, Dr. Nopkin occupying with Mr. Quelson the dais, on which stood a grand piano.
There was a brief pause, but pregnant with anxiety. Mr. Quelson, all smiles, handed Dr. Nopkin a long list of names, and the committee fanned itself and thought of the Tannhäuser-Busch Overture which it had listened to so attentively in the Wagner coaches that brought it to Brahms Institute.
The only man of the party who seemed out of humor was Mr. Blink, who grumbled to his neighbor that the name of the college was in bad taste. It should have been called the Chopin Retreat or the Paderewski Home, but Brahms—pooh!
Dr. Nopkin arose, put on a pair of ponderous spectacles, and grinned malevolently at his hearers.
"Young men," he squeakily said, "I want to begin with a story. Once upon a time a certain young man, full of the conviction that he was a second Liszt, sought out Thalberg, when that great pianist—"
"Great pianist!" whispered Blink, sardonically.
"Yes, I said great pianist—greater than all your Paderewski's, your—"
"I protest, Mr. President," said Mr. Blink, rising to his feet; at the same time a pink flush rose to his cheek. "I protest. We have not come here to compare notes about pianists, but to examine this class."
The class giggled, but respectfully and in a perfect major-accord. Dr. Nopkin grew black in the face. Turning to Mr. Quelson he said:
"Either I am president or I am not, Mr. Quelson."
That gentleman looked very much embarrassed.
"Oh, of course, doctor, of course; Mr. Blink was carried away, you know—carried away by his professional enthusiasm—no offense intended, I am sure, Mr. Blink."
By this time Mr. Blink had been pulled down in his seat by Mr. Sanderson, the critic of the Skyrocket, and order was restored.
The class seemed disappointed as Dr. Nopkin proceeded: "As I was saying when interrupted by my Wagnerian associate, the young man went to Thalberg and played an original composition called the Tornado Galop. It was written exclusively for the black keys, and a magnificent glissando, if I do flatter myself, ended the piece most brilliantly. Thalberg—it was in the year '57, if I remember aright."
"You do," remarked the class in pleasing tune.
"Thank you, gentlemen, I see dates are not your weak point. Thalberg remarked—"
"For goodness sake give us a rest on Thalberg!" said the irrepressible Blink.
"A rest, yes, a fermata if you wish," retorted the doctor, and the witticism was received with a yell, in the Doric mode. You see Rheinberger had not quite sapped the sense of humor of Mr. Quelson's young acolytes.
Considerably pleased with himself Dr. Nopkin continued:
"Thalberg said to the young man, 'Honored sir, there is too much wind in your work, give your Tornado more earth, and less air.' Now the point of this amiable criticism is applicable to your work now and in the future. Give your readers little wind, but much soil. Do not indulge in fine writing, but facts, facts, facts!" Here the speaker paused and glanced severely at his colleagues, who awoke with a start. The ear of the music critic is very keen and long practice enables him to awaken at the precise moment the music ceases.
Then Dr. Nopkin announced that the examinations would begin, and again from a tapped bell sounded the triad of B flat minor. The class looked unhappy, and the young fellow from Missouri burst into tears. For a moment a wave of hysterical emotion surged through the hall, and there being so much temperament present it seemed as if a crisis was at hand. Mr. Quelson rose to the occasion. Crying aloud in a massive voice, he asked:
"Gentlemen, give me the low pitch A!"
Instantly the note was sounded; even the weeping pupil hummed it through his tears, and a panic was averted by the coolness of a massive brain fertile in expedients.
The committee, now thoroughly awake, looked gratified, and the examination began.
After glancing through the list, Dr. Nopkin called aloud:
"Mr. Hogwin, will you please tell me the date of the death of Verdi?"
"Don't let him jolly you, Hoggy, old boy," sang the class in an immaculate minor key. The doctor was aghast, but Mr. Quelson took the part of his school. He argued that the question was a misleading one. They wrangled passionately over this, and Blink finally declared that if Verdi was not dead he ought to be. This caused a small riot, which was appeased by the class singing the Anvil Chorus.
"Well, I give in, Mr. Quelson; perhaps my friend Blink would like to put a few questions." Dr. Nopkin fanned himself vigorously with an old and treasured copy of Dwight's Journal of Music, containing a criticism of his "passionate octave playing." Mr. Blink arose and took the list.
"I see here," he said, "the name of Beckmesser McGillicuddy. The name is a promising one. Wagner ever desired the Celt to be represented in his scheme of the universe."
"Obliging of him," insinuated Mr. Tile of the Daily Bulge.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," groaned poor Quelson; "think of the effect on the class if this spirit of irreverent repartee is maintained."
"Mr. Beckmesser McGillicuddy, will you please stand up?" requested Mr. Blink.
"Stand up, Gilly! Stand up Gilly, and show him what you are. Don't be afraid, Gilly! We will see you through," chanted the class with an amazing volume of tone and in lively rhythm.
The young man arose. He was 6 feet 8, with a 17 waist, and a 12-1/2 neck. Yet he looked intelligent. The class watched him eagerly, and the Missouri member, now thoroughly recovered, whistled the Fate-motif from Carmen, and McGillicuddy looked grateful.
"You wish to become a music critic, do you not?" inquired Mr. Blink, patronizingly.
"What do you think I'm here for?" asked the student, in firm, cool tones.
"Tell me, then, did Wagner ever wear paper collars?"
"Celluloid," was the quick answer, and the class cheered. Mr. Quelson looked unhappy, and Tile sneered in a minor but audible key.
"Good," said Mr. Blink. "You'll do. Would any of my colleagues care to question this young and promising applicant, who appears to me to have thoroughly mastered modern music?"
Little Mr. Slehbell arose, and the class again trembled. They had read his How to See Music Although a Deaf Mute, and they knew that there were questions in it that could knock them out. The critic secured the list, and after hunting up the letter K, he coughed gently and asked:
"Mr. Krap is here, I hope?"
"Get into line, Billy Krap; get into line, Billy. Give him as good as he gives you; so fall into line, Billy Krap."
This was first sung by the class with antiphonal responses, then with a fugued finale, and Mr. Slehbell was considerably impressed.
"I must say," he began, "even if you do not become shining lights as music critics, you are certainly qualified to become members of an Opera Company. But where is Mr. Krap—a Bohemian, I should say, from his name."
"Isn't Slehbell marvellous on philology?" said Sanderson, and Dr. Nopkin looked shocked.
No Krap stood up, so the name of Flatbush was called. He, too, was absent, and Mr. Quelson explained in exasperated accents that these two were his prize pupils, but had begged off to umpire a game of Gregorian-chant cricket down in the village. "Ask for Palestrina McVickar," said Mr. Quelson, in an eager stage whisper.
The new man proved to be a wild-looking person, with hair on his shoulders, and it was noticeable that the class gave him no choral invitation to arise. He looked formidable, however, and you could have heard an E string snap, so intense was the silence.
"Mr. McVickar, you are an American, I presume?"
"No, sir; I am an Australian, I am happy to say." A slight groan was heard from the lips of an austere youth with a Jim Corbett pompadour.
"You may groan all you like," said McVickar, fiercely; "but Fitzsimmons licked him and that blow in the solar plexus—"
Mr. Slehbell raised his hands deprecatingly.
"Really, young gentlemen, you seem very well posted on sporting matters. What I wish to ask you is whether you think Dvořák's later, or American manner, may be compared to Brahms' second or D minor piano concerto period?"
"He doesn't know Brahms from a bull's foot," roared the class, in unison. "Ask him who struck Billy Patterson?" Once more the quick eye of Mr. Quelson saw an impending rebellion, and quickly rushing among the malcontents he bundled five of them out of the room and returned to the platform, murmuring:
"Such musical temperaments, you know; such very great temperaments!" Incidentally, he had rid himself of five of the most ignorant men of the class. Quelson was really very diplomatic.
McVickar hesitated a moment after silence had been restored, and then answered Mr. Slehbell's question:
"You see, sir, we are no further than Leybach and Auber. The name you mention is not familiar to me, but I can tell you all the different works of Carl Czerny; and I know how to spell Mascagni."
"Heavens," screamed Blink, and he fainted from fright. Beer was ordered, and after a short piano solo—Czerny's Toccata in C, from Dr. Larry Nopkin—order reigned once more. The class gazed enviously at the committee as it sipped beer, and longed for the day when it would be free and critics of music. Then Mr. Quelson said that questioning was at an end. He had never endeavored to inculcate knowledge of a positive sort in his pupils. Besides, what did music critics want with knowledge? They had Grove's Dictionary as a starter, and by carefully negativing every date and fact printed in it, they were sure to hit the truth somewhere. A ready pen was the thing, and he begged the committee to be allowed to present specimens of criticisms of imaginary concerts, written by the graduating class of 1912.
The request was granted, and Dr. Nopkin selected as the reader. There was an interval of ten minutes, during which the doctor played snatches of De Koven and Scharwenka, and the class drove its pen furiously. Finally, the bell sounded, and the following criticisms were handed to the president, and read aloud while the class blushed in ruddy ensemble:
An Interesting Evening
"It was a startling sight that met the eyes of the musical editor of the Evening Buzzard when he entered the De Pew Opera House last night at 8.22. All the leading families of Mushmelon, arrayed in their best raiment, disported themselves in glittering groups, and it was almost with a feeling of disappointment that we saw the curtain arise on the seventh act of Faust. Of course the music and singing were applauded to the echo, and the principals were forced to bow their acknowledgments to the gracious applause of the upper ten of Mushmelon. The following is a list of those present," etc. (Here follow names.)
"A rattling good notice that," said one of the older members of the committee. Mr. Quelson hastened to explain that it was intended for an emergency notice, when the night city editor was unmusical. "But," he added, "here is something in a more superior vein."
Dr. Nopkin read:
How I Heard Paderewski!
"Of course I heard Paderewski. Let me tell you all about it. I had quarreled with my dear one early in the day over a pneumatic tire, so I determined to forget it and go listen to some music.
"Music always soothes my nerves.
"Does it soothe yours, gentle reader?
"I went to hear Paderewski.
"Taking the Broadway car, me and my liver—my liver is my worst enemy; terrible things, livers; is life really worth the liver?—I sat down and paid my fare to a burly ruffian in a grimy uniform.
"Some day I shall tell you about my adventure with a car. Dear Lord, what an adventure it was!
"Ah, the bitter-sweet days! the long-ago days when we were young and trolleyed.
"But let me tell you how Paderewski played!
"After I reached my seat 4000 women cheered. I was the only man in the house; but being modest, I stood the strain as long as I could, and then—why, Paderewski was bowing, and I forgot all about the women and their enthusiasm at the sight of me.
"Fancy a slender-hipped orchidaceous person, an epicene youth with Botticellian hair and a Nietzsche walk. Fancy ten fluted figures and then—oh, you didn't care what he was playing—indeed, I mislaid my program—and then it was time to go home.
"Some day I shall give you my impressions of the Paderewskian technique, but today is a golden day, the violets are smiling, because God gave them perfume; a lissome lass is in the foreground; why should I bother about piano, Paderewski, or technique?
"Dear Lord, dear Lord—!"
Mr. Quelson looked interrogatively at the committee when the doctor finished.
"The personal note, you know," he said, "the note that is so valued nowadays in criticism."
"Personal rubbish," grunted the doctor, and Mr. Slehbell joyously laughed.
"Give us one with more matter and less manner," remarked Mr. Sanderson, who had quietly but none the less determinedly eaten up all the sandwiches and drunk seven bottles of beer. Mr. Van Oven, of the Morning Fowl, was, as usual, fast asleep. [This was the manner in which he composed himself.]
Mr. Quelson handed the doctor the following:
Solid Musical Meat
"The small hall of the Mendelssohn Glee Club was crowded to listen to the polished playing of the Boston Squintet Club last night. It was a graciously inclined audience, and after
Haydn, Grieg, and Brahms had been disclosed, it departed in one of those frames of mind that the chronicler of music events can safely denominate as happy. There were many reasons, which may not be proclaimed now why this should be thus. The first quartet, one of the blithest, airiest, and most serene of Papa Haydn's, was published with absolute finish, if not with abandon. Its naïve measures were never obsessed by the straining after modernity. The Grieg is hardly strict quartet music. It has a savor, a flavor, a perfume, an odor, even a sturdy smell of the Norway pine and fjord; but it is lacking woefully in repose and euphony, and at times it verges perilously on the cacophonous. Mr. Casnoozle and his gifted associates played a marvelous accord and slid over all the yawning tonal precipices, but, heavens, how they did perspire! The Brahms Quartet—"
"I protest," said Mr. Blink, hastily rising. "I've been insulted ever since I entered the building. Why, the very name of the institution is an insult to modern musicians! Brahms! why, good heavens, Brahms is only a whitewashed Hummel! And to think of these young minds being poisoned by such antique rot as Brahms' music!"
In a moment the committee was on its legs howling and jabbering; poor Mr. Quelson vainly endeavoring to keep order. After ten minutes of rowing, during which the class sang The Night That Larry Was Stretched, Dr. Nopkin was pushed over the piano and fell on the treble and hurt his lungs. The noise brought to their senses the irate men, and then, to their consternation, they discovered that the class had sneaked off during the racket, and on the blackboard was written: "Oh, we don't know, you're not so critical!"
"My Lord," groaned Mr. Quelson, "they have gone to that infernal Gregorian chant-cricket match; wait till I get hold of that Palestrina McVickar!"
The committee left in a bad humor on the next train, and the principal of Brahms Institute gave his class a vacation. Hereafter he will do his own examining.