Some of these gentlemen, I heard, were very shady in their dealings with young and inexperienced artists. They plied a trade of gentle blackmail, kid-gloved blackmail, of course, but the kid gloves contained the claws of a hungry eagle. The following describes one of their pretty little customs.
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]Hearing of the arrival in Berlin of a singer or pianist whose agent had been advertising the fact that his client would shortly give a series of three recitals, the critic would call upon him, express interest in his work, and ask to have the pleasure of hearing the artist sing or play. The artist, flattered and already sure of one good “notice” at least, would immediately accede; having done his best or worst, something like the following conversation would take place:—
Critic. Quite good. But that A-minor study of Chopin’s is, of course, rather hackneyed; you are not, I presume, including it in any of your programmes?
Artist (rather taken aback). I must confess I had intended doing so. But if you think....
Critic. I do. Most decidedly I do. There are in Berlin at least ten thousand people who play it; why should you be the ten thousand and first? Debussy, now. Why not Debussy? Or even Busoni. Busoni can write, you know.
Artist (eagerly). Yes, yes; I’m playing some Debussy: Les Poissons d’Or and Clair de Lune.
Critic. Clair de Lune is a little vieux jeu, don’t you think? However, play it. Play it now, I mean.
The artist, half angry, but tremulously anxious to please, does as he is told.
Critic. Oh yes; you have talent. I think, yes, I rather think I shall be able to praise you in my paper. However, we shall see. But there is something, just a little of something, lacking in your style. Your rhythm is not sufficiently fluid. It should, if I may say so, sway more. And your use of tempo rubato.... Well, now, I could show you. You see, I have heard Debussy himself play that, and I know pre-cise-ly how it should go.
Artist (absolutely staggered). Oh ... er ... yes. Quite.