MOODS AND MOMENTS
I.
In dreams
I have been swept through space
On a star-hung swing,
Like a silkworm
Upheld by a slender strand,
Tossed about in the gale.
II.
His life was well ordered
And monotonously clean
As an orchard with white-washed trees.
But he felt not the cool
Of the sun-splotched woods
Nor the mad blue brilliance
Of the sea.
III.
I see green fields
In the first flush of the spring,
And little children playing,
Clustered as patches of white flowers.
Musik or Music?
James Whittaker
Despite its two world-cities our America is still a vast unattached province, subject now to the influence of London, now to that of Berlin or Paris, and again in a period of disaffection and unrestraint. Our taste is childish,—a capricious, intermittent taste—good once in a while, never lasting, and by no means frequent. Such a taste gives a few pleasures but not the developed one of judgment. It never lasts long enough to be imposed. We are unable to pair two congenial traditions and get a tendency. There is nothing for it but to welcome another generation of incomprehensible foreigners in the hope that among them will be found a mate for our very real desire for fine things.
One country has sent us little inspiration. Her natives do not willingly leave her soft sky for our harsh brilliant western sun. They have a proverbial preference for her gentle manner and speech. For our youth she has the admiration and envy of age, for our red knuckles and large ankles she has the indulgence of one who has been beautiful for many lovers, but for our loud-mouthed demand for adulation she has the aloofness of one who has still many courtiers. If we go fearfully as befits our youth and humbly as befits our awkwardness to Paris, instead of waiting for Paris the beautiful to come to us, perhaps we shall receive what Berlin and London have not yet given us.
London came to us willingly with a scholarly something that was better than our previous nothing. Berlin forced on us a manner of strong professionalism that was better than our previous weakness. Now we are beyond the age of facile conquests and we must, at the risk of being rebuffed and made unhappy, seek the favor of a lady who stays at home.
Since the spirit of Mozart and Beethoven and Schubert left Vienna, Music has loved no city. We shall soon agree that she did not love Weimar greatly nor Munich at all nor Leipzig enough. As for the lusty person who flaunts a passion for Berlin, we must call her a maid masquerading in her mistress’s cloak if, indeed, we concede her a resemblance to music at all.
The joy of loveliness admired, the frankness and naivete, the “jeu perle” and natural melodiousness that were the life of Viennese Music vanished utterly with the death of Schubert unknown. It seemed that he and his predecessors must have brought music into a cul-de-sac from which it would have to extricate itself. German music did and received new impetus from the professionalism of Weber, the literary romanticism of Liszt, the savoir-vivre of Chopin, and the cosmicality of Wagner. France, meanwhile, entertained loyally the older manner, nursing it through its unpopularity into the convalescence it now enjoys. When we come to discover that the spirit of Berlin is rather of something hyphenated to “Kultur” than of music purely, we shall also discover the spirit of Vienna,—vigorous and slightly Frenchified, in the Conservatoire and the Schola Cantorum.
Somehow, without the least effort or merit, we have strolled into the position of the “distinguished amateur.” It is an eminence from which one may see everything if one but keep a clear eye and a doubting mind. What fools we should be to view the road before us as we can only this once, wearing a prejudice like a pair of smoked goggles. To doubt is a privilege which the wise will make a duty. We should doubt what has given us our artistic existence, and if it can only stand by our faith it will fall—but we shall not fall with it. We should doubt the things we desire so that when we abandon them we cannot be reproached with broken faith. We must doubt the strength of organized professionalism that Berlin would teach us, the value of hard work the contrapunctalists of the Royal Academy preach;—we must doubt the superiority of art and the artist, the inviolability of tradition, the legitimacy of the Beethoven-Wagner-Strauss succession for the reason that they have been so freely offered if for no other. Surely such eagerness to be accepted does not prove great worth. Let us pooh-pooh all these magnificent “Pooh-Bahs” of music to see if their threats to have our heads off are real or bluff. Then with our tongues still in our cheeks, let us continue on to other courts.
If we have enjoyed the simple and fine art with which Beethoven and Schubert enlivened and refined the salons of Vienna, we shall enjoy Franck. If we should prefer our Mozart livelier by a notch of the metronome and lighter by one-half of the strings than we hear it now, we should be pleased by Chabrier and Faure and the way they are played by the half-dozen youngsters who get their premier prix at the end of each year’s work in the Conservatoire. From pure inertia we have out-stayed our pleasure in modern German music. A bit of animation and on to Paris!
The Critics’ Catastrophe
(A Probable Possibility)
Herman Schuchert
The scene is a dining-room of the “Cave Dwellers,” Chicago’s most exclusively stupid club. At one table are seated four musical critics, and one ex-critic, of the daily papers. That this gathering is unique is attested by numerous hushed conversations at other tables; the critics’ table is a center of half-concealed interest. A waiter has just cleared away the dishes; cigars are brought. The youngest critic, of the Worst Glaring Nuisance (witness the yellow acre of illuminated sign at the foot of Michigan avenue) speaks as if to reassure his natural timidity:
Donald Worcester. I suppose it will be eminently respectable. (The others appear not to have heard his remark, until a reply is carefully chosen by
Carbon Hatchett. Her advance notices would lead one to suppose that she has something of a prestige.
Edward Morless. That guff! I saw it. Awful! What I want to know is: what the devil does she mean by beginning her program with Debussy. I just wonder what’s become of Beethoven—ha, ha!
Donald Worcester. I suppose she imagines she’s going to revolutionize program-making.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Gentlemen, when I give my piano recital on March twentieth, you’ll hear the best possible way to start a program. Debussy is altogether too weak to lead; he’s scarcely able to get in at all (chuckle) but I’ve found a leader that is a leader—Archibald Shanks. If I know anything, and I do, this Shanks is going to become the American composer. Why, he’s so much better than MacDowell with all his Scotchy junk that there’s no comparison. I found Shanks in Rolling Prairie, South Dakota; and when I play his March of the Rock-Spirits at my recital on March the twentieth, you’ll hear the real thing—it’s music, I tell you.
Xilef Bowowski. Hmh! Ah-hmh! I remember looking over compositions by Archibald Shanks, sent me by a certain New York publisher, to get my opinion before taking them; and in one of them—I forget the title—I think it was Through the Marsh—some such title—hmh!—it doesn’t really matter—I found seven consecutive fifths and twelve parallel octaves within the space of a few bars. Positively inexcusable!
Ben Dullard Krupp. Blgh-h! That belongs to his early period. Through the Marsh is simply a practice-stunt, done when he was about fifteen—a mere youthful exercise. You can’t judge by—blgh-h!
Donald Worcester. I read in the Artists’ News that young Shanks is only seventeen at the present time.
Edward Morless. Probably means his son—Waiter!—What do you want, boys? I’m dry as a bone. And we’ve got a long afternoon before us. However, for my part, I shan’t be in any hurry about getting there. What’ll it be?
Xilef Bowowski. A little plum brandy for me.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Bring me some Haig and Haig.
Carbon Hatchett. Manhattan cocktail.
Donald Worcester. A large beer.
Edward Morless. Good! Let’s have some Green River, Tim. Krupp, do you think she’ll be any good at all?
Ben Dullard Krupp. A woman? From Budapest? On a Thimble piano? Starting in with Debussy? And you ask if she’ll be good! How could she be?
Donald Worcester. I was reading the other day——
Ben Dullard Krupp. All she plays is trash, of one kind or another. Debussy never does anything but move up and down the whole-tone scale; no melody, no counterpoint, no music at all. And take the Tchaikowsky thing, for instance. Everybody knows that Tchaikowsky always carried a whip in one hand and a gun in the other, and when he wasn’t using one, it was the other. It’s proverbial, and makes such a handy remark when thinking would take too long. And his piano-style: he simply hasn’t got any; it’s pathetic. I see you don’t get my joke on the sixth symphony—the Pathetique. I say, America won’t stand for that sort of thing. Some kindly person should have informed this Madame Frizza Bonjoline before she made a complete fool of herself.
Carbon Hatchett. She hasn’t played yet, and maybe it won’t be so bad after all.
Donald Worcester. A friend of mine tells me that Mr. Debussy is one of the greatest living melodists.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Blgh-h!
No further imbecility is displayed for the time being. Soon the party breaks up, and a natural modesty prevents the critics from seeing each other again until after the piano recital by Madame Frizza Bonjoline, an artist who is but slightly known in the United States, but one who has achieved recognition throughout Europe, South America, and Australia. She has just given an unusual program, which she could not close with less than seven encores. While the five critics wait outside the green-room, they hold a restrained conversation.
Hatchett to Krupp. It’s good to have you among us again, Krupp. Although I do have a terrible time steering my thoughts through the mazes of the English language I feel like the only live one left, since the Trib dropped you. The town needs you, and I’m glad you have an opportunity again to mould public opinion. We need more strong-minded men like you.
Krupp (fiercely). I know it, but the cattle don’t recognize good criticism when they see it.
Hatchett to Krupp. How did the Madame strike you? Plenty of emotion, I thought.
Krupp (to all). Impossible program—good God!—did you ever hear such a medley? And she hasn’t the strength of a kitten.
Hatchett to Krupp. Of course, she didn’t seem quite vital enough, but that may have been because of her choice of numbers. They were somewhat “outre.”
Krupp (sourly). Altogether too girlish, I say.
Edward Morless. Splendid personality, but a rotten technic, don’t you think?
Donald Worcester. As near as I can tell, she wears marvelous silk hose. They were the most striking thing about the whole concert.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Blgh-ggh-h!
Xilef Bowowski. I suppose then, Mr. Worcester, one doesn’t require any ears to get the good or bad out of a concert—only eyes.
Edward Morless. Well, Bowowski, ears were a nuisance today, at any rate, don’t you think? The optic impressions were far the best—easily. I wonder when we’re going to get in here.
Xilef Bowowski has been tramping up and down the corridor, his ultra-distinguished chin a trifle elevated, his hands locked behind his back. He is evidently searching for words. In a moment, the door of the green-room swings open and a well-dressed man is seen bidding good-bye to Madame Frizza. The stranger takes no notice of the group of critics as he brushes past and hurries away. Then a most charming voice welcomes the five critics. The Madame is greeted by four blushes and one scowl. The scowling one, Mr. Krupp, is the first one to enter the green-room. Close behind him come the embarrassed four.
Madame Bonjoline. Gentlemen, this is so good of you. And how did you like my recital? I hope it pleased you—yes?
There is a moment of silence which, as it becomes awkward, is broken by
Donald Worcester. Some concert, all right.
Madame Bonjoline. How good of you. I am happy.
Ben Dullard Krupp. I confess I find myself unable to understand the judgment which places Debussy at the first of a program. Now why did you——
Madame Bonjoline. Ah,—ho, ho, ha, ha—that is our little joke, gentlemen, is it not? I suppose no one knew that I played Rachmaninoff instead of Debussy at the start—no one but ourselves. I changed my mind after I was out on the platform.
Ben Dullard Krupp. I was—blgh-h!—that is, Mr. Stalk was at my office to see me about my coming American orchestra concert, at which I myself conduct, and so I was detained, and did not get to hear your opening number.
Donald Worcester. How did you manage to get along without Brahms, Madame. I should be interested——
Madame Bonjoline. Oh, you did not hear my third encore, then—the Brahms B-minor Capriccio. I am so sorry you missed it.
Donald Worcester. Oh, was that Brahms? I thought it sounded rather chunky, now that I recall it.
Edward Morless. Would it seem too—well, let us say—American to you if I were to ask you to lunch with me, Madame Bonjoline? I should be extremely happy to have that pleasure.
Madame Bonjoline. Ah, but the pleasure is mine. I shall be delighted to accept—that is, if there is time. I make that condition only.
Edward Morless. Thank you, thank you, Madame.
Xilef Bowowski. Madame Bonjoline, do you remember the date of publication of the Gliere Prelude which you played today? It has completely slipped my mind.
Madame (laughing). My good sir, I could not recall it to save my soul.
Donald Worcester. I wish your playing sounded as good as it looks, Madame.
Madame Bonjoline. How delightfully American you are! So frank, so utterly frank! But that reminds me: my friend, James Shooneker—perhaps you saw him; he left just as you came in—told me that my playing looked as good as it sounded. How strange a coincidence! You all know him, of course. For Europe, he is the great critic. He is in Chicago for a short time, and he is going to review my recital for a magazine here—I believe it is called Le Petit Revue, or something like that.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Oh, yes; that effusive young lady’s journal, The Little Review. I have heard of it. Ha!
Donald Worcester. Their poor musical writer was in your audience this afternoon, Madame.
Ben Dullard Krupp. He’s one of those chaps you can meet three or four times and still never recognize on the street.
Madame Bonjoline. So? At any rate, James Shooneker is going to “write up” (I believe you say) my recital. I understand that this number of The Little Review is coming from the press in the morning, and his article will appear in it.
Carbon Hatchett. So, indeed. This Mr. Shooneker, if I remember correctly, has written a book—what is the title of it?
Madame Bonjoline. Och! He has written so many, many books! I do not know which one you mean.
The charms of the woman, her little moues, smiles, and quick gestures, are entangling the five men. Conversation becomes increasingly difficult. The writers leave the green-room and, on the outside with the door closed, they glance nervously at one another.
Edward Morless. Say: this James Shooneker,—who’s he?
Ben Dullard Krupp. Who cares who he is? His stuff won’t get far in that sheet.
Edward Morless. Of course not. I just wondered. For my part, I’ve had a terrible afternoon.
Donald Worcester. But Ed, think of tonight. You’ve got to listen to Walter Spratt’s piano-playing.
Carbon Hatchett. Do you call that playing?
Nothing seems to relieve the collective nervousness of the five judges. At the outer door, they separate. Ben Dullard Krupp makes his way to McChug’s book-store and, after one swift glance up the street and another down the street, he pushes strenuously through the whirling doors. With swinging tread, he marches down the broad center aisle and hails a busy clerk. Yes, the clerk has sometimes heard of James Shooneker and—yes,—they have a book or two of his—just a minute. Then a convulsive terror seizes Ben Dullard Krupp, for on the other side of the same counter stands Donald Worcester. The younger approaches the elder with unaccustomed familiarity, having him, at the moment, on the hip, as it were.
Donald Worcester. Looking up Shooneker? Here’s one of his things,—Half-tones in Modern Music.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Oh, yes; that. I remember reading it when I was scarcely more than a boy.
Donald Worcester. It was published in 1909, I see.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Must be a later edition, then. Oh, pshaw! What’s the use of waiting for that clerk? I think I have a complete set of Shooneker packed away at home.
Donald Worcester. That so? Well, I’ll tell the clerk you couldn’t wait. Maybe I’d like the book myself, if it’s worth anything at all.
The presence in Chicago of one James Shooneker is like some fearfully disturbing shadow behind each of the five writers. Bowowski, within half an hour after the recital, has three helpers in the Public Library searching for every printed word of Shooneker. After a tasteless dinner, Ben Dullard Krupp scares three piano pupils out of their wits by an unusual amount of shouting and stamping; this, also, should be attributed to the visiting author. Worcester seeks his desk in the editorial room and crams on “Pathetic Spaces”—Shooneker’s latest book, according to the clerk. But the young critic’s attention strays from the pages of print to the lady in the green-room ... lovely person, if she can’t play the piano. Worcester has an impulse to use the telephone, and soon it masters him. He calls up Madame Bonjoline’s hotel and, as she is out, leaves a message—he will call in person at eight o’clock. Then a note is written, which he despatches to her by messenger. After that, there is time to think things over. Was there ever anyone as charming as she? And she has expressed her admiration for his frank manner and open criticism. Perhaps——Now the Madame is not willing to admit him at first; but he is insistent, and she permits him to enter. James Shooneker is seated by the window. Worcester, like a guilty boy, shakes hands with him and mumbles acknowledgement. But soon the celebrated critic has him at his ease, and the young journalist is talking with his accustomed candor. Then, continuing in the same friendly manner,
James Shooneker. Mr. Worcester, you might be interested in knowing the reason for my Chicago visit. In fact, it is only fair you should know.
Donald Worcester. Sure!
James Shooneker. Very well then. Your paper, the Worst Glaring Nuisance, as its catch-word has it, has sent for me to fill the vacancy created by your resignation.
Donald Worcester. Who’s bluff is this?
James Shooneker. It is true. I have your place offered me. Now, I don’t want to seem arbitrary, but here’s my proposition: In the first place, cut out your infatuation for Madame Bonjoline. That’s the main condition, if you want me to leave Chicago. The second thing is perhaps more important to yourself, and that is that you promise to take a long course in counterpoint and musical history under some good authority, if you can find one in the United States. Perhaps you would do well to tap the boundless information of your friend, Bowowski. These are my only demands. I don’t want your job. I’ll drop a note to your editor and tell him he doesn’t appreciate you. But you will have to forget your aspirations for the Madame, and behave yourself with a dignity becoming your position. You mustn’t make yourself ridiculous over Frizza, and for her sake—
Donald Worcester. Shooneker, you certainly are a brick! You certainly are! I can’t help being a bit dazed with Madame, but I’ll keep it all to myself. You’re a peach!
Madame Bonjoline. See, James, how perfectly American he is! I told you he would be. Isn’t he a dear boy?
James Shooneker. You like the conditions, then?
Donald Worcester. Bully! I appreciate them. And say, didn’t you write a book once called The Insane Melons?
James Shooneker. Yes, I have a book with a title something like that. Why do you ask?
Donald Worcester. If you’ve got one with you, I’d like a signed copy.
James Shooneker. I’m very sorry, but I didn’t bring any with me. Perhaps I can send you one later.
Donald Worcester. Fine! I wish you would. That’s treating me mighty good.
Madame Bonjoline. You deserve it, my boy.
In a confusion of thanks, apologies, and compliments, Worcester leaves the room and returns to the office, where an article is written which harbors no doubt that Madame Frizza is a great pianist. About the same hour, Mr. Morless is passing in a copy of his own criticism, stating that the Madame is a fairly promising amateur. The menacing cloud of Shooneker seems to hang over him; it has nearly prevented his passing in the article. And Ben Dullard Krupp, without a regular post, mails his lengthy and scathing opinion of the Madame to a weekly paper, in the hope of securing a steady allotment of their space. To him, also, the thought of an “outside” critic in their midst is irritating and, at times, threatening. What was HE going to say about her? His word might have weight. Suppose ... and Krupp wishes now he could reach into the mail-box and pull out his article. But the panic passes; he recalls several of his pet phrases, and this restores full confidence in his own finality.
Again—the same dining-room in the “Cave Dwellers,” with three of the critics disposing of an early lunch, almost early enough to be called breakfast.
Bowowski. They can’t print more than a couple hundred.
Hatchett. Somebody told me they had several thousand paid subscriptions, and then printed a bunch of extras.
Krupp. What difference does that make? The point is: what will they sell for? I’m good for my share, but there’s a limit, you know. Do you suppose that if I offered to do their musical criticism, they would destroy this issue as it stands?
Hatchett. You can’t tell. It isn’t “they” but “she.” You’re dealing with a woman, a young one at that.
Krupp. Oh, Hell; I can get around that difficulty. Waiter! Bring me a telephone! Hurry up!
Bowowski. Do you realize, gentlemen, that it is more than possible, in fact it is even likely, considerably more than probable, that we are right in the case of Madame Bonjoline, and that one James Shooneker is in error?
Hatchett. By George! That’s so, isn’t it!
Krupp. There’s no question about it. Just wait a minute now, while I call up this “Little Revolt”—ha! ha!—and see how they jump at the mention of my name.
Ben Dullard Krupp is informed over the wire that the new issue of The Little Review in large quantities is already in the mails, etc. In fact, at the same moment, the famous Shooneker is glancing through his own contribution; he swears at a misprint and puts the magazine in his suitcase, to read on the train. Madame Bonjoline does not open her copy, having read the article concerning herself from manuscript, two weeks before.
Krupp. Rank insolence, I call it!
Hatchett. What’s the matter? Won’t they sell?
Krupp. She says the mails are flooded with the impudent sheet.
Bowowski. Horrible! Horrible, indeed!
Krupp. It’s a great pity somebody couldn’t loosen up and say something about this Shooneker. How did I know who he was, or that his opinion was worth anything? Fine chance I’ll have now of getting on The Saturday Blade!
Bowowski. Perhaps if you had been able to curb your unfounded hatred of Tchaikowsky for a moment, we wouldn’t have been placed in this ridiculous position.
Krupp. Blgh-gg-h! It’s bad music, rotten! and I don’t care who knows I said it. This country is simply spineless when it comes to having an opinion about music. Why, I’ve got enough opinion to supply the nation, and they need it. That’s why I put on my American concerts. They’ve got to learn that I’m the only prophet in America’s musical future. I feel that it’s my duty—
Hatchett. Tchaikowsky has written some very good—
Krupp. Tchaikowsky! Man! if you mention that mediocrity’s unhallowed name again, I’ll go completely mad!
Bowowski. Great Heavens! Tim is coming to put us out, just on account of your infernal shouting. And look! With him! Shooneker! How perfectly horrible!
Krupp. Blgh-gh-h!
Abashed and silent, the three judges leave the table and get into their coats with more celerity than is comfortable. They glimpse a faint smile on the face of their jinx as they hasten out. The waiter, Tim, conceals his own mirth. Two critics rush down the street without a word. Calling after them is
Krupp. I don’t care who he is. I know I was right in saying—
A Shorn Strindberg
Marguerite Swawite.
Had Mme. Strindberg deliberately planned to revenge herself upon him who was once her husband, she could have devised no subtler way of wounding that redoubtable sham-hater than the manner in which she chose to speak of him before the Chicago public. As I sat in the prickly darkness, with its accompanying rumble of Beethoven, I half-expected the musty atmosphere of legerdemain to be scattered by the great August’s derisive laughter. But the promise of occult things was not fulfilled, for with the cessation of the music came a rosy glow, and then a gracious lady with a wistful presence. And she seemed quite at ease in her mise en scène.
She read to us of herself, of Prince Hassan’s feast in Paris, of her theatrical meeting with Strindberg, and of how he talked with her all the evening and later walked home with her; of how she stopped on the bridge to toss snowballs and Strindberg dried her hands upon his handkerchief; and of how she dreamed of him that memorable night—a strange symbolic dream. And as she read, her face was as quiet water rippled by gentle vagrant breezes.
The remainder of the meeting was distinguished by the fact that there was light, but the spirit of the seance persisted. Madame pleaded for questions, but the little audience seemed frozen into inarticulateness. Those few who did venture stammered for a moment and then drooped into silence. Madame, however, was not discouraged. She read us Strindberg’s views on divorce. In reply to the mumbled questions she replied that she considered eugenics impractical and indelicate, that her husband had believed intensely in peace and had written a beautiful story in its favor, which she had meant to read us but to which an accident had occurred; that Strindberg was a democrat in theory but an aristocrat in feeling; that he was not a misogynist, but had reviled bad women because he loved good women; that The Father was a plea for the sanctity of the home, the sanctity of woman.... Until it seemed that she was not speaking of the bitter-tongued, fiery-souled Swede, but of some complacent American, say, Augustus Thomas. And then someone said that it was past ten, and Madame thanked us and disappeared.
As we swung down Michigan Avenue in the fresh night air I smiled to think that over across the water they still thought of us as the “hayseed” among the nations to whom the “gold brick” might be disposed with impunity—and with exceeding profit. But we are learning....
Vers Libre and Advertisements
John Gould Fletcher
In common with all the judicious readers of American magazines and newspapers, I have learned to look on the advertising pages for the best examples of news the journalist can offer. It is only reasonable that this should be the case. Advertisement writers are the best-paid, least rewarded, and best-trained authors that America possesses. Compared to these, even the income of a Robert Chambers pales into insignificance. Moreover, they understand the public thoroughly and do not attempt to overstrain its attention by overseriousness, or exhaust its nerves by sentimentality. That is, the best ones do not. There may be some exceptions, but in the main I have found American advertisements refreshingly readable.
It had never occurred to me, however, that there might be gems of poetic ability hidden away in these tantalizing concoctions—these cocktails of prose. But I must revise my estimate. Without wishing to boom or discourage anyone’s products I cannot resist quoting some recent advertisements that I and I alone have discovered, seized, and gloated upon. After all, I approach the subject purely from the angle of form. What student of poetic form could afford to ignore the following: