January3 192 ,11 ־
MUSICAL COURIER
26
LETTERS OF JAMES GIBBONS HUNEKER
Collected and Edited by Josephine Huneker and Published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
A REVIEW
have a Friday palate and there is lobster fat—pyramids—crab meat a la Jack, and other supreme golly-gubs). French? Then old Martin’s cor. 9th and University Place. (The Lafayette is barred because of the “literary” crowd. I distinctly refuse to bring a sensitive newspaper man into such a circle.) Remains—Italian. I know of a place, Frank Busto’s, 44 Beaver St., same block as downtown Delmonico’s (you get off subway at Bowling Green and walk north two blocks) good spaghetti, gnocchi, etc., risotto, pastas, etc. Chianti. And it’s only round the corner from Dr. Knirm’s Sanitarium—in Hanover Square. But it’s down town and may interfere with Nathan’s or your plans. Ask Nathan if he knows a “retreat.” We must talk as well as guzzle and gobble. Let me know by Thursday. Sir to you!
As ever,
J. H.
The passion with which he loved beer, especially Pilsner, was often the subject of casual mention in the letters. For instance, when he had to give up alcohol entirely, as he did for a time under doctor’s orders, he dropped this sentence into a letter to his old friend, John Quinn: “On the water wagon—first time in my long and thirsty career. Don’t even miss my beer—but dream of its color and density betimes.”
It was in 1914 that he moved into the Flatbush house which was his home for the rest of his life. Here is what he had to say of it in another letter to John Quinn: “We are in much quieter quarters, wonderful view—white today, green in summer—cool also, five stories high, and much larger than the other apartment (also higher in price) ; above all, no one over our heads. An ideal place to write, if pianolas don’t start. . . . Do what I will, John, I feel sad and isolated down here; yet I’m only twenty minutes from the city and in summer a lovely spot. It will wear off, I hope, the melancholy.”
It did wear off apparently, for Huneker was very fond of his Flatbush place in the last years of his life. Just before moving there he had been in Europe and got thoroughly homesick, as a flashing sentence out of one of his letters shows: “I had rather,” he writes, “be a fried oyster in Philadelphia than Lord-Mayor of London.”
Of course, most of the material in these letters, which were written with never a thought of publication, is strictly personal, but in them there are occasional utterances on one of the arts, often colloquial and straight from the shoulder, written not for publicity and thus without the restraint that was imposed upon his critical work in the press. Writing March 1913 from Berlin to Benjamin de Casseres, he said: “The Futurists are fakers, Marinetti • a megaphone—a bladder. Don’t waste good grey matter, cortical cells on such charlatans.” Time has proved how correct his judgment was.
Two months earlier he heard d’Albert’s playing and this is what he wrote, also from Berlin:
Heard ¿’Albert play the other night—audience 2000, delirious. Such playing—a smear, a blur, 1,000,000 dropped notes, rotten rhythms, etc., but the whole like something elemental, an earthquake, a tornado, a collision of planets, the sun in a conflagration. Since Rubinstein! I stood on my chair to yell with the rest (X was really standing on my head). Piano playing pays here. America is not the only land of dollars. I paid 20 marks for 2 wretched seats at the Philharmonic. What a genius at the keyboard. His own music is a clever quilt of other men’s ideas. Oh ¿’Albert!! Never shall I forget that dwarf-giant, that Kobold—demi-god!
As ever,
Jim.
Here is part of a letter to Lawrence Gilman, the essayist, who nowadays writes program notes for the New York and Philadelphia Philharmonic orchestras, and, by the way, in a style that reminds one more of Huneker than anybody else who is writing now. The subject matter of the letter is exceedingly interesting—if true:
You can’t get the facts in the Wagner-Wesendonck letters. Cosima took care of that. Here they are: The day (morning) of August 11th, 1858, Minna Wagner went to the Wesendonck Villa and told Otto—the original of King Marke, and no doubt as big a bore— the true state of affairs. What happened later in the day no one can tell, but R. W. left that night for Italy after borrowing money from Jacob Sulzer. Wesendonck when asked why told his intimates that he had asked R. to go. The scandal was all the greater because a musicale had been planned for the Villa, and Liszt being invited arrived on the 20th and to his amazement found his friend not in the vicinity. Mathilde W. wrote in 1859 that Richard had left “voluntarily!” A barber who used to shave me at the Gilsey House 25 years ago was never happier than when retailing the small talk of the time. He had shaved the mighty Richard at Zurich, and knew of the interrupted love affair. He called Wagner a “little bandy legged fresh Jew” (“frech” he meant); the “Krummebeine” is an old anecdote; Wagner, so they say, always wore a long cloak to conceal his convex legs. . . .
Here is an interesting trifle out of a letter to Theodore Presser, the Philadelphia Music Publisher: “The subject matter is free from objectionable insinuations; indeed, while I am not endeavoring to paint Liszt an angel, I don’t believe that he was a glorified goat chasing, with horns lowered, every lady goat in Germany. There’s been too much of that sort, of thing in his biographies. Wagner was thrice as immoral. But Liszt has to bear the brunt of the game.”
Quotations could be multiplied by the dozens, but enough have already been selected here to show what a fund of enjoyment there is in the book. So to close there shall be one single comment by James Gibbons Huneker upon James Gibbons Huneker. The letter is to Edward C. Marsh and refers to a book which had recently appeared (1910) purporting to lay down the fundamental principles of the arts: “Your flair did not fail you. The book, etc., is aesthetic punk. The review is as dry as a herring bone and my contemporary throat. (Pause as the fat writer sips ambrosia from a bottle; $1.25 per case of 24, Milwaukee Pabst, blond.) English and American writers may be divided like Caesar’s Gaul in three divisions: piffle, punk and bull. The latter is Jack London’s “Note”; C—hits the first, and the second is the most universal quality of the three. I’ve reached at various epochs all three stadia.” H. O. O.
Artur Schnabel Arrives for Tour
Artur Schnabel, pianist, has arrived for his second American concert tour. His first engagement will be with the Society of Friends of Music at its concert at Town Hall, Sunday afternoon, January 14. Mr. Schnabel will leave the early part of February to fill a series of engagements in the Northwest, California, Texas and Middle West. During the months of March and April he will appear as soloist with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, the Beethoven Society, New York Symphony Orchestra, Philharmonic Society Boston Symphony Orchestra and Philadelphia Orchestra.
week you said. Alden the Lord bless you, but it was the Devil himself that put this flea into your editorial ear. My summer ־ is lost. No music. No outings. Ten thousand words weekly—i.e. 2500 for four days weekly. And hell, and writer’s cramp, and I can’t typewrite, I can’t dictate. But Oh! what a beautiful flow of language is gushing up from my sub-consciousness, what a dazzling rainbow mist of vocables!”
Next a short one—a jab directed at Frank J. Wilstach, compiler of the Dictionary of Similes. Evidently Mr. Wilstach had questioned the use of Huneker of the expression “not as good as” instead of “not so good as:”
Of course, you are only tone deaf; also art blind, so why fight nature? Your ear fails in prose else you would not speak of “as—as” which usage years ago was decreed to be correct. “So” in some instances is O, K., but the hissing aspirate “so—as”—phew! Where’s your ear. Prose is like music, every word, every letter must be placed for sound, color, nuance. Grammar must go by the board if it interferes with the cadence—I am talking now of artistic, musical prose, not of newspaper sawdust. As for grammar, it was made for imbeciles and schoolmarms. Selah!
Cordially,
Jim the Penman.
James Gibbons Huneker was one of those fellows that Shakespeare speaks about—of infinite jest and most excellent fancy. In consequence, in the three hundred odd pages which hold his letters, about as many and varied topics are touched upon as one can imagine. The task of editing them must have been a hard one. Mrs. Huneker, who did it, begins her_ preface by stating that the volume was prepared “primarily on the suggestion of his friends, and particularly for his friends,” which explains the inclusion of a lot of matter relating to appointments and other everyday matters that would surely have been left out of a volume intended only for the general public. But there is plenty of witty, intellectual wheat among this casual chaff to repay anyone for reading the volume through. No better idea of its contents can be given than to make a few selections, and there is nothing better to start with than the condensed autobiography which, at the request of H. L. Mencken, editor of the Smart Set, Huneker included in a letter to him. It is dated at his Flatbush home, April, 1916:
Those who knew Huneker well, know how fond he was of discovering Jewish. blood in bodies where it had never been suspected. It is extraordinary to see with what ingenuity he sometimes starts to prove,, in a half playful way, the Judaism in families which had never been thought to have a drop of it. Here is a very interesting letter written in March, 1917, to Pitts Sanborn, music critic of the New York Globe, who had written Huneker asking for information “on the perennially interesting subject of Jews in music, always a favorite with Mr. Huneker
Dear Mr. Sanborn:
My little improvisation brought me a very interesting letter indeed. The meeting with Pachmann (whose right name is Waldemar Bachmann—no Von or De, and a native of O'dessa, his father a Kantor in a local school) must have been immense. When in the mood he is the most ornamental impresario alive. The legato story is true—few possess the art. Joseffy achieved the legato effect by an aerial handling—or footing—of pedals. But the clinging legatis-simo of Pachmann, Thalberg, and Paderewski (in his prime) he did not boast. His ideal touch was aristocratic, detached, yet on the ear the melodic line was never staccato. Pedalling—in perfection. As to the Jewish note; of course, I meant the historical dead, not contemporaries. Hummel—a great virtuoso, Moscheles, Heller, Mendelssohn, Thalberg, down to Doehler, Herz—a volley from the land of the pawnbroker. However, Paderewski is a Roman Catholic even if his touch has a luscious oriental richness. But oriental doesn’t mean Semitic; besides the Slavs (Poles and Czechs and Russians) are all peculiarly gifted in the matter of touch. Think of Chopin, Rubinstein! No, I meant no narrow fencing off, only it is remarkable that the Jews should be such great executants. Paganini looked Jewish; Ysaye—spell it Isaiah—was of Jewish origin in Belgium—30 years ago; his brother was called Jacob Ysaye, a pianist. Now he is James. And Paderewski—whom I love and admire greatly—sent me his photograph 20 years ago and on the back it was addressed to “Jacob Hunekerstein,” a neat come-back for my jesting with his Christian name. This is, of course, all entre-nous. In my own case, possibly Magyar, and wholly Irish. The Hunekers, or Hunykyrs, were in Phila. in 1700, and my ancestors fought against King George. I’m a Cooper and a Bowman, English on the distaff side of my father’s house; the James Gibbons speaks for itself; only, my God, my dear Sanborn, my grandfather was a prohibitionist; actually toured the country in 1840-50 in the cause of temperance, and our family thirst! No, I don’t believe in heredity. Pardon my prolixity. Your letter fired off my memory cartridge.
Sincerely,
James Huneker.
It is hopeless to attempt to give anything more than an entirely inadequate idea of the subjects into which his brilliant pen thrusts its sharp point for the moment, only to flit on immediately to another and totally different one, as a bee goes from blossom to blossom and flower to flower, gathering its honey. For instance, writing to Mencken, he tags this little thrust on the end of a letter upon an entirely different subject: “Will have a Leschetizky story in next Sunday’s Times magazine section. A sweet theme! I don’t think.”
There is a letter to Rupert Hughes, congratulating him upon a new book, which starts this way: “A line to tell you that I. was very much pleased with your letter and hope the new book will be a success—it will be, of course. (But look out for the soft-pedal and the tremolo stop, old man! They hit the public in the midriff, but in art they must be sparingly used. Don’t mind this wag from a graybeard.” And at the end there is this single line: “P. S.—Salt your boodle, Bill!!” Hughes, they say, is taking his advice; but Huneker himself never did.
Huneker’s epicureanism is often in evidence. Here is a typical letter, also to Mencken, which has to do with a luncheon. “Dr. Knirm’s Sanitarium was his favorite resort for an application of his Pilsner cure:
Dear Mencken:
As you suggest Thursday or Friday, let us make it Friday at 1 P. M. Where? The challenged party in the code duello has the choice of weapons; nevertheless, let me ask you—Italian, French, German or American? If German—Liichow’s on 14th St. (but as we drink beer later why not begin elsewhere). If American— Jack’s; but it’s a case of coals going to Newcastle to ask a Baltimorean to eat seafood. What can Jack offer you? (yet you may
First effort—a short story written July 4, 1876, (thermometer at 105°) in Philadelphia. Bad imitation of E. A. Poe—my first idol—and in print. _ It is called “The Comet” (ominous title!). Then I went־ to Paris 1878—to see Liszt—and wrote for the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin specials on the music, painting, sculpture, literature, ^stage, etc.; wrote very much in my present gossipy manner—I’ve no literary style, except a possible personal note— and I’ve all this stuff in print to show. I came to New York in 1886. I first read Ibsen in 1878. I became acquainted with Nietzsche in 1888—his “Richard Wagner at Bayreuth.’’ I imitated Carlyle—the Carlyle of “Sartor” till my mother—who wrote pure, undefiled English—gave me Cardinal Newman; with Flaubert he has been my model. God knows you would never suspect it. The first Ibsen critic in America was William Morton Payne, editor of The Dial, Chicago; with Prof. H. H. Boyesen of Columbia he discoursed on the plays (and completed the Jaeger Life). But as far back as 1891 I was in the critical trenches as dramatic critic and fighting the poison bombs of the old time criticism. Then Ibsen was a “degenerate;” today, he is a tiresome preacher.
I had only a brief Maeterlinck fever. I’m over it fifteen years. Shaw is shallow, but amusing. I read him in 1886—a rotten music and art critic. But I quoted him in the Musical Courier and persuaded its owner, the late Marc A. Blumenberg, to buy an essay of Shaw’s on old musical instruments, clavichord, etc., and their superiority to the modern grand pianoforte (like all innovators and revolutionists, Shaw faces the past, socialism, idealism, etc.). This article-y-I believe to be the first that ever appeared in America—is buried in the pages of the Musical Courier for May, 1890 or 1891. From the Philadelphia Bulletin, when I returned, I went to The Courier (for fifteen years). Joined The Recorder in 1891; then The Morning Advertiser; finally The Sun in 1900. Since then—1912 —I’ve written for The Times, still do (was music, dramatic and art critic on Sun.. Also editorial writer, book reviewer, and foreign correspondent.)
I studied piano at Paris with a Chopin pupil, the venerable George Mathias; in New York with Joseffy. Was his (Don’t blench, Bill! This is the last) assistant as piano pedagogue at the National Conservatory, N. Y., for ten years. Have never published any music, though my grandfather, John Huneker, was a rotten composer of church music and a capable organist of St. Mary’s Church, Philadelphia; my other grandfather was an Irish poet, patriot, refugee, printer, James Gibbons, president of the Fenian Brotherhood in America. (The limit—poet and organist! No wonder I drink Pilsner.) My “best seller” thus far (mirage No. 93!) is “Iconoclasts” (published 1903) then the “Chopin” and now “Ivory Apes,” etc., which has gone here and in England. (See Spectator, Dec. 18-15). My “Chopin” is also in French and Italian, and, oddly enough there is an edition (pirated) of “Visionaries,” in Bohemian! (Prague). I have it. (The translator, poor deyil, came over here in money distress and it was summer and I was in Europe. He got a job at the German Hospital as a lift boy. It fell. He was killed. No royalties for me, no money for him). And now the secret of my soul.
In France and Germany my two volumes of tales, “Melomaniacs,” and “Visionaries,” are the best liked of my books (they have both been translated by Lola Lorme of Vienna but the war has kept them off the market). I think they are, in spots, worth all my alleged critical stuff. That is, they belong, for the most part, to what the Germans call “Kulturnovellen,” and are not Anglo-Saxon or American fiction at all. I have “The Lord’s Prayer in B,” in German and French. Also in German—“The Purse of Aholibah,” “A Chopin of the Gutter,” etc. (in weekly and monthly publications). My favorites are (in “Visionaries”) “The Third Kingdom,” “Rebels of the Moon;” and in “Melomaniacs,” “Avatar.” Both books have been called valuable documents for alienists, etc., and both books do not sell. They are too heavy. Did you read “Visionaries?” May I send, if not, both these fictions? (Ah! the parental passion for the ugly ducklings of the inky family.) In conclusion (quick! a drink at my expense) I loathe movements—artistic, political, literary, religious—all propaganda, etc. There are no “schools” in art or literature, only good writers and artists; there are no types, only individuals. And the best beer comes from Bohemia as the best music comes from Germany; the best prose from Paris, the best poets from England—you can’t get away from it, old son. But the best fried oysters and terrapin and literary critics—from Baltimore! By God! And may He have mercy on •your soul if you read this through at a sitting.
His larger autobiography, “Steeplejack,” first appeared in serial form in the Philadelphia Press during the summer of 1918. Here is one of his characteristic “business” letters in regard to it, written to Alden March, editor of that paper :
George Moore 10 or 15 years ago wrote for Lippincott’s Magazine a series of critical articles that he called: “Avowals.” They are not in book form, therefore not copyrighted; nevertheless, I won’t steal any man’s title, hence my own title. This is to go!!! My name is to be signed James Gibbons Huneker. The times are dangerous and the Hun must be taken out of my patronymic. Besides the Gibbons will get the Irish vote. Send me a contract this week —serial rights alone. Simple as possible—terms as arranged, no time limit—of that latter you are the arbiter, but I think myself Nov. 1st ought to stop my personal vomitings. A hundred per
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