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?