In instrumental music there has been a steady advance from the merely showy and technical to the purely classical. Ten years since they would crowd the hall to hear the “Carnival.” Had Madam Urso presented the Beethoven Spohr, or the Mendelssohn Concertos, the people would not have listened in patience through a single performance. If they heard it at all, it would be under a sort of silent protest, and the next time the piece was offered there would be nobody there. These remarks apply to the country generally. In some of the older cities classical music of a high order would have found a certain proportion of listeners. From year to year, all this has changed. By introducing into the lightest and most popular programmes some short selection from the great masters of violin music, Madam Urso has gradually taught her audiences what they should admire, and, by persistent and gentle urging, she has led them to a knowledge of the best and highest in art. In this Madam Urso is not alone. All true artists do thus teach the people and try to lift them up to something higher and purer. It is this that makes the divine in music. Happily, our people are willing enough to be taught. The general education, and our freedom from precedents enables all art to grow faster here than anywhere else. We are still, as a people, crude and musically ignorant, but we are fast learning. The changes in the character of concert music may be seen almost from year to year; the standard continually advances and, certainly, there is everything to encourage and satisfy the most ardent lover of music in the country. While we have such artists as Madam Urso among us we have much to be thankful for, and may press on till we reach the high standard of excellence she ever keeps before herself.
We may here offer a short sketch of Madam Urso’s personal appearance and manners, when free from the restraint of public life. The ideas generally held concerning her “personally” are somewhat incorrect, as the following will show:
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It was a cloudy, winter’s afternoon, and the place seemed dull and gloomy. The Boston Music Hall is, at best, bare and vast, and by daylight is particularly unattractive. The great organ pipes appear cold and lustreless, and the light tints on the walls are not very comforting. The orchestra of the Harvard Musical Association were upon the stage, under the leadership of Carl Zerrahn, and a few privileged subscribers, numbering a hundred or two, were gathered together at one side, as if to keep each other in countenance. Over such a wide floor it takes a thousand or more to make a comfortable and social company.
The orchestra were at work upon the 6th Symphony of Beethoven, placidly overcoming its difficulties, stopping now and then to polish up some delicate point, and taking things in an easy and rather indifferent manner. In the midst of it entered at the side door a young woman in fur cape, skull cap of the jauntiest pattern, and some plain dark dress. The hackman came behind, bearing the great brown leather violin case. With a serene and placid manner she mounted the stage, and bidding the man place the violin case on the steps before the organ, she quietly took off her outer garments and sat down on the steps. A friendly nod and a smile to Zerrahn and then a cordial hand shake to the librarian of the Society. She had brought the orchestral parts of the concerto she was to play, and began to talk in an animated manner about their use. The audience had no longer any ears for the symphony, and though it went steadily on, they were all eyes to see and admire their favorite thus “at home” among them.
Having arranged everything to her satisfaction, she came down into the house and was quickly surrounded by a group of artists and others. For all she had a hearty hand shake, a smile, and words of genial and animated welcome. No pretty miss in the company more admired, no merry talker more sought for than this unaffected, simple-minded woman. Beating time on the back of the seat with one finger, nodding to acquaintances, speaking to all in turn, now in French, and now in the best of English, she sat the most observed and admired of all the goodly company, and the most serene and happy.
Presently the symphony rehearsal came to an end, and, without the slightest hint of affectation, she rose from her seat, smiled her adieus, and went to the stage. Selecting a violin from its blue satin wrappings, she threw a white silk handkerchief over her left shoulder, tuned her violin, and took her place at the front of the stage in the centre of the orchestra. Tall Carl Zerrahn on his stand seems particularly giantesque beside such a little lady, and he pushed the platform on one side and stood upon the stage, to be nearer to her. She gave nods of recognition to members of the orchestra, shook hands with Zerrahn, smiled and talked merrily with the leading violin, and then explained something concerning the music to Zerrahn. With her bow she gave the time, and the opening prelude began. She adjusted her handkerchief to her shoulder, and with a light touch played snatches of the orchestral part, as if to give a hint as to its proper rendering. Now comes the solo. The accompaniment is hushed, that not a note of the golden Mozartian melody be lost. Of her performance we will not here speak in detail, as it is described a page or two further on. Our present concern is with Madam Urso as a woman at home in her art, and among friends. Suddenly, in the midst of a brilliant passage, she stops, and lifting one finger she says, so that all can hear: “F natural.” The first violins are caught napping, and without a book, and while playing her own part, she detects and corrects a mistake of a semitone in the accompaniment. There is no self-assertion or parade, but only an arch smile and a merry shake of the head, as if it was a good joke to catch them thus. A hearty laugh from orchestra and audience, and then the work is resumed. As the piece returns, she nods and smiles her approval, and the music goes on again. At the end of the movement comes a long cadenza of great difficulty. She treats it in that masterly and effective manner that seems so natural to her. Then follows a liberal round of applause from orchestra and spectators. Next comes the andante movement, the most beautiful of the three. During the brief interval between the two she talks merrily with one and another, and when she is ready gives the time to the conductor. Zerrahn wields the baton, but Madam Urso is the real director. Her spirit guides the music and inspires the orchestra with unusual animation. The rather listless manner in the symphony is exchanged for painstaking care and attention. Camilla’s earnestness and life seems to inspire them to greater effort, and their playing gains in vigor and precision. “Not too much fire, gentlemen.” This is the slow movement, and she gently represses their enthusiasm. The feather like touch, the airy delicacy of her own playing, spurs them on to unwonted care and restraint. At the end comes another long cadenza, that for soft, whispering tones, sweetness, grace, and vanishing lightness, is almost unequaled. Her face becomes serious. Her eyes have a far away expression, dreamy and tender, that soon affects the music. The magic violin sighs and breathes in melting tenderness. The melody floats upward, melting and fading away, exhaled into palpable silence. Not quite, for just as it seems ready to languish into nothing, a soft, sweet chord from the band completes the cadence and brings it to a natural end.
Shouts of “bravo” and loud applause greet this splendid effort, and she nods and smiles with a pleased and natural expression. Still, she is not satisfied. The band are not sufficiently delicate and light in the treatment of the last chord or two, and she bids them try it again. Three times they go over it, before her exacting and lofty standard of perfection is reached.
Then comes the last movement. Vivacious, animated, and merry, it seems to suit her happy hearted nature, and she fairly revels in its brilliant melodies. Difficulties vanish like mist before the sun. It becomes a delight to dash through the sparkling passages. Clear, clean cut, vivid and sharp, like cut glass, the music stands out in bold characters. Not a note slighted or blurred. No obscurity or doubt about the most intricate passage. Curious little effects of staccato mingled with the most linked together legato. Bold flashes through chain lightning scales. Chords pouring forth in torrents, and then airy scraps of melody, as if the theme had broken up into shining bits, glistening drops, and sparkles of song.
An artist soul blooms before us. Her face is rapt, and almost severe. In a moment it is over, and her features break into a pleasant, natural smile. Amid the applause she returns to the floor and mingles with the people. No affectation, no looking for praise; nothing but sweetness and friendliness. No common-place woman, with brush or needle in hand, could be more simple and winsome, no genius could be more self-forgetting.