10
February 15, 1923
In Germany this would have caused no end of excitement and altercation, for the Germans are a temperamental race. But the calm of the Frenchman, especially since the war, is admirablë. “Ca fait 28 francs,” the conductor said simply, handing me a little bill. I paid it. And the cold evening air coming m through that windowless compartment cooled my temper, too. In the corner of my compartment sat a Korean couple on a honeymoon. They seemed not to freeze. It was a dreary ride.
The City of Light.
The lights of Paris made one forget it. No city is so prodigal with light. In New York we leave lighting to private business, chiefly the advertising business. The city of Paris, on the other hand, decorates its avenues with brilliant white clusters of incandescent gas burners—long rows of them, which, hanging between the arches of the rue Castigioone, for instance, give the place a festive air every day, beginning, in winter, with the hour of tea.
One Grand Meal.
For the hours in Paris are regulated by meals. All other amusements are secondary to the great indoor sport. Theaters begin late—quarter to nine or nine—so people can get through dining first. Matinees and concerts start soon after lunch. Between the two is tea time, which old-fashioned Frenchmen still call the hour of the aperitive. (I remember movies advertising afternoon sessions as “Cinéma aperitif” and I used ׳to puzzle about the etymology of that expression.) In retrospect Paris is one great meal with artistic interruptions.
Speaking of aperitives, we (meaning Loomis Taylor and myself) took ours—soda straight—at Lou Hauser’s, the first real American bar I’ve seen in three years. I discovered that putting one’s foot on a rail is an involuntary action, a natural impulse that no inhibition or prohibition will kill. Attavism. And Lou Hauser himself proves the artistic influence of the saloon. Undisturbed by the incursions of the dancing patrons of “Ma Soeur” across the way, he held forth on the superb interpretation of Schumann’s Variations Symphoniques by Moriz Rosenthal the night before.
The Wizard Among Pianists.
Rosenthal is evidently the sensation of the pianistic houi in Paris. Not only Lou Hauser, but everybody else that heard, or saw him was impressed by his prowess and vitality. The bell-boy in my hotel, where Rosenthal also stopped, related to me, wild-eyed, how he had discovered the master in his room, eating his breakfast with one hand, exercising on a practice keyboard with the other and reading the morning paper at the same time. “A wizard, un homme merveilleux—c’est incroyable ! . .
In the old days before the war I used to lose no time after reaching Paris in going to the Comédie française and the: Opéra. Today my first inquiry—like that of every American’—is for the latest revue. Is it because I am less idealistic or more depraved? Or is it because, as a revue, the Paris revue is a grand show, while as an opera the Paris Opera is—also a grand show? Perhaps a little of both. The Opera and I—we both have changed since the war . . .
What Paris Sees and Hears.
Anyhow, the latest revue in Paris is not the best, though it has in it the requisite amount of human meat, and Mis-tinguett, the danseuse à la mode. (Also the latest “American” novelty: the painted woman.) No, the best revue is at the Concert Mayol, and it is called Oh! quelle nue. The staging, the groupings, the gentle blague, the riot of colors and shapes—the genuine beauty of it all is ravishing. And it is something that only can happen in France. But the music! If that is music then I am unmusical. I can’t tell the difference between the music of one revue and that of another. In theory it certainly is the same. Stravinsky claims that the piano is a percussive instrument, and composers should treat it as such. The popular French idea seems to be that the orchestra is a percussive instrument.
The funniest thing in this particular show is the mounted policeman. Oh, yes, they have a mounted policeman in Paris now. They are said to have two, but I have discovered only the one at the head of the Boulevard des Capucines, near the Opéra. He is a little man with a new kind of helmet—like a fireman’s—and a long black rubber cape, and he looks very self-conscious sitting up there. But who wouldn’t be self-conscious’ with a gaping crowd standing around him all day? You see, people in Paris have time.
International Politics and International Music.
The day after I arrived in Paris the French armies marched into the Ruhr. According to the papers there was great enthusiasm over this glorious victory, but I noticed none of it about town. (Some people I believe manifested great elation over the “drop” of ten centimes in dollars, but this elation was bound to be short-lived.) The attitude of the man in the street is about like this : “Let’s see what they cart do. We haven’t got anything out of the boches so far; we can possibly get less by the new method, and maybe we’ll get more.” Further than that he doesn't think.
But this is “high politics,” which isn’t supposed to concern me. I only spoke of it because, by a coincidence, the founding of the French section of the new International Society fof Contemporary Music took place on the same day. Paul Dukas, Albert Roussel, Erik Satie sat at the chairman’s table, as genuine Frenchmen as there exist. Before them lay the by-laws of the German section, serving as a model for the French. In considering the composition of the international jury, Germany was mentioned as one of the “great nations” that must be represented in that body. No sign of hatred or of antipathy here. Musicians, artists, are rarely chauvinists, and contrary to־ general opinion, I found no chauvinism among the musicians of France.
Two Different Worlds.
I had an opportunity of meeting a lot of them at the house of Henri Prunières, editor of the Revue Musicale and one of the most highly esteemed musical essayists in the world. M. Prunières is a center for all that is progressive, liberal and interesting in the music of Paris today. But what a different world it is. Looking over my recent review of music in Berlin the difference strikes me all the more forcibly. Music to these people has almost a different meaning than it has to those across the Rhine. Names that are coin current there are unknown here, and vice versa.
Touch with Germany has been lost in the war and hardly resumed. They play the classics, yes—especially Mozart (Continued on page 14)
MUSICAL COURIER
PARIS—THE CITY OF LIGHT—ENJOYS
VARIETY OF ENTERTAINMENT
German and French Temperament—Rosenthal a Wizard Among Pianists—What Paris Sees and Hears—The New Exotic-Hissing Honegger—The New Musical Entente—The New Opera—Many Orchestras—
Stokowski's Triumph
of an economical turn of mind I preferred my solitude, especially after a recent experience, the recollection of which still gives me a distinct pain in the region of my breast pocket.
German and French Temperament.
But even this modest style trip is not without the possibility of adventure, as my own case proves. I expected terrible things from the ferocity of the German customs officials suspecting me of complicity in the flight of capital, but they hardly took notice of me. (Who said anything about German psychology?) The Belgians were hardly more solicitous and I was put definitely at ease, when suddenly the French, who have evidently captured, among other things, the famous German thoroughness, went through my luggage with a diabolical technic of destruction, or distribution, exhibiting my most private belongings, shirt by shirt, to the populace. I was distressed, and rather illogically took out my wrath on my suitcase, which promptly rebelled, rebounded from the rack and smashed the car window.
Paris, January 15.—Your Berlin correspondent blew into Paris a week ago and is blowing out again today. Eight days in the City of Light: to a man living in Berlin this is like a sunbath after months of rain. One comes to life again. And Paris, the city of our youthful dreams . . .
A journey from Berlin to Paris, though not as fast and as comfortable as in pre-war days, is—or, rather, can be— quite agreeable again. You have your choice of two trains; one is the International, which, coming from Warsaw, is supposed to leave Berlin at two, but never gets in much before four, owing to the affectionate encounters with the customs officials at the Polish border. This is the favorite train for profiteers and privateers of indeterminate nationality, political chamelions of central and east European origin that automatically take on the color of the victorious country (Czecho-Slovak passports abound). You have the privilege of sharing a sumptuous first-class sleeping compartment wiith one of these gentlemen, for which you pay one-third again as much as on the ordinary train, where you are left alone with your money or your thoughts. Being
THE ST. LOUIS SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA
RUDOLPH GANZ
Conductor
v*
FREDERICK FISCHER
Assistant Conductor
1923—SPRING FESTIVAL TOUR—1923
= MARCH
APRIL
MAY
—COMPRISING—
55 Cities 13 States 100 Concerts
MARCH
APRIL
MAY
TEXAS Paris Denton Fort Worth Dallas Stephenville Brownwood San Antonio Beaumont
LOUISIANA New Orleans (two days) Shreveport
MISSISSIPPI
Vicksburg
ALABAMA Mobile Montgomery Birmingham (Festival) Huntsville (Festival)
TENNESSEE
Chattanooga
Jackson
Memphis
KENTUCKY
Louisville
—ITINERARY-
KANSAS
Concordia
Hutchinson
Chanute
Wichita
Winfield
Emporia (Festival)
ARKANSAS Fayetteville Little Rock Arkadelphia Texarkana Pine Bluff
OKLAHOMA Guthrie Tulsa Okmulgee Muskogee Oklahoma City Durant Hugo
ILLINOIS
Urbana (two-day Festival) Decatur (Festival)
Quincy
Galesburg
Alton
IOWA Davenport Iowa City
Cedar Rapids (Festival) Grinnell (Festival)
Des Moines
NEBRASKA
Omaha
Lincoln
MISSOURI
Kansas City (two days)
Columbia
Mexico
Springfield
J oplin
Cape Girardeau Hannibal
S. E. MACMILLEN, Manager 210 UNIVERSITY B’L’D, ST. LOUIS, MO.
1924 SPRING FESTIVAL TOUR NOW BOOKING