George Nathan - The Collected Works of H. L. Mencken

The Virgin

Oh!

The Married Women

Oh!

The Other Women

Oh! How dreadfully handsome!

The Virgin

Oh, such eyes, such depth! How he must have suffered! I’d like to hear him play the Prélude in D flat major. It would drive you crazy!

A Hundred Other Women

I certainly do hope he plays some Schumann.

Other Women

What beautiful hands! I could kiss them!

(The Great Pianist, throwing back his head, strikes the massive opening chords of a Beethoven sonata. There is a sudden hush and each note is heard clearly. The tempo of the first movement, which begins after a grand pause, is allegro con brio, and the first subject is given out in a sparkling cascade of sound. But, despite the buoyancy of the music, there is an unmistakable undercurrent of melancholy in the playing. The audience doesn’t fail to notice it. )

The Virgin

Oh, perfect! I could love him! Paderewski played it like a fox trot. What poetry he puts into it! I can see a soldier lover marching off to war.

One of the Critics

The ass is dragging it. Doesn’t con brio mean—well, what the devil does it mean? I forget. I must look it up before I write the notice. Somehow, brio suggests cheese. Anyhow, Pachmann plays it a damn sight faster. It’s safe to say that , at all events.

The Married Woman

Oh, I could listen to that sonata all day! The poetry he puts into it—even into the allegro ! Just think what the andante will be! I like music to be sad.

Another Woman

What a sob he gets into it!

Many Other Women

How exquisite!

The Great Pianist

( Gathering himself together for the difficult development section. ) That American beer will be the death of me! I wonder what they put in it to give it its gassy taste. And the so-called German beer they sell over here— du heiliger Herr Jesu! Even Bremen would be ashamed of it. In München the police would take a hand.

( Aiming for the first and second C’s above the staff, he accidentally strikes the C sharps instead and has to transpose three measures to get back into the key. The effect is harrowing, and he gives his audience a swift glance of apprehension. )

Two Hundred and Fifty Women

What new beauties he gets out of it!

A Man

He can tickle the ivories, all right, all right!

A Critic

Well, at any rate, he doesn’t try to imitate Paderewski.

The Great Pianist

( Relieved by the non-appearance of the hisses he expected. ) Well, it’s lucky for me that I’m not in Leipzig to-day! But in Leipzig an artist runs no risks: the beer is pure. The authorities see to that. The worse enemy of technic is biliousness, and biliousness is sure to follow bad beer. ( He gets to the coda at last and takes it at a somewhat livelier pace. )

The Virgin

How I envy the woman he loves! How it would thrill me to feel his arms about me—to be drawn closer, closer, closer! I would give up the whole world! What are conventions, prejudices, legal forms, morality, after all? Vanities! Love is beyond and above them all—and art is love! I think I must be a pagan.

The Great Pianist

And the herring! Good God, what herring! These barbarous Americans——

The Virgin

Really, I am quite indecent! I should blush, I suppose. But love is never ashamed—How people misunderstand me!

The Married Woman

I wonder if he’s faithful. The chances are against it. I never heard of a man who was. ( An agreeable melancholy overcomes her and she gives herself up to the mood without thought. )

The Great Pianist

I wonder whatever became of that girl in Dresden. Every time I think of her, she suggests pleasant thoughts—good beer, a fine band, Gemütlichkeit . I must have been in love with her—not much, of course, but just enough to make things pleasant. And not a single letter from her! I suppose she thinks I’m starving to death over here—or tuning pianos. Well, when I get back with the money there’ll be a shock for her. A shock—but not a Pfennig !

The Married Woman

( Her emotional coma ended. ) Still, you can hardly blame him. There must be a good deal of temptation for a great artist. All of these frumps here would——

The Virgin

Ah, how dolorous, how exquisite is love! How small the world would seem if——

The Married Woman

Of course you could hardly call such old scarecrows temptations. But still——

(The Great Pianist comes to the last measure of the coda— a passage of almost Haydnesque clarity and spirit. As he strikes the broad chord of the tonic there comes a roar of applause. He arises, moves a step or two down the stage, and makes a series of low bows, his hands to his heart. )

The Great Pianist

( Bowing. ) I wonder why the American women always wear raincoats to piano recitals. Even when the sun is shining brightly, one sees hundreds of them. What a disagreeable smell they give to the hall. ( More applause and more bows. ) An American audience always smells of rubber and lilies-of-the-valley. How different in London! There an audience always smells of soap. In Paris it reminds you of sachet bags—and lingerie .

( The applause ceases and he returns to the piano. )

And now comes that verfluchte adagio .

( As he begins to play, a deathlike silence falls upon the hall. )

One of the Critics

What rotten pedaling!

Another Critic

A touch like a xylophone player, but he knows how to use his feet. That suggests a good line for the notice—“he plays better with his feet than with his hands,” or something like that. I’ll have to think it over and polish it up.

One of the Other Men

Now comes some more of that awful classical stuff.

The Virgin

Suppose he can’t speak English? But that wouldn’t matter. Nothing matters. Love is beyond and above——

Six Hundred Women

Oh, how beautiful!

The Married Woman

Perfect!

The Dean of the Critics

( Sinking quickly into the slumber which always overtakes him during the adagio.) C-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h!

The Youngest Critic

There is that old fraud asleep again. And to-morrow he’ll print half a column of vapid reminiscence and call it criticism. It’s a wonder his paper stands for him. Because he once heard Liszt, he....

The Great Pianist

That plump girl over there on the left is not so bad. As for the rest, I beg to be excused. The American women have no more shape than so many matches. They are too tall and too thin. I like a nice rubbery armful—like that Dresden girl. Or that harpist in Moscow—the girl with the Pilsner hair. Let me see, what was her name? Oh, Fritzi, to be sure—but her last name? Schmidt? Kraus? Meyer? I’ll have to try to think of it, and send her a postcard.

The Married Woman

What delicious flutelike tones!

One of the Women

If Beethoven could only be here to hear it! He would cry for very joy! Maybe he does hear it. Who knows? I believe he does. I am sure he does.

(The Great Pianist reaches the end of the adagio, and there is another burst of applause, which awakens The Dean of the Critics.)

The Dean of the Critics

Oh, piffle! Compared to Gottschalk, the man is an amateur. Let him go back to the conservatory for a couple of years.

One of the Men

( Looking at his program. ) Next comes the shirt-so . I hope it has some tune in it.

The Virgin

The adagio is love’s agony, but the scherzo is love triumphant. What beautiful eyes he has! And how pale he is!