by S. T. Joshi
THE JANITOR
Now all of them people think I’m the professor’s tuner. (The thought gives him such delight that, for the moment, his brain is numbed. Then he proceeds.) I guess them tuners make pretty good money. I wish I could get the hang of the trick. It looks easy. (By this time he has disappeared in the wings and the stage is again a desert. Two or three women, far back in the hall, start a half-hearted handclapping. It dies out at once. The noise of rustling programs and shuffling feet succeeds it.)
FOUR HUNDRED OF THE WOMEN
Oh, I do certainly hope he plays that lovely Valse Poupée as an encore! They say he does it better than Bloomfield-Zeisler.1
ONE OF THE CRITICS
I hope the animal doesn’t pull any encore numbers that I don’t recognize. All of these people will buy the paper to-morrow morning just to find out what they have heard. It’s infernally embarrassing to have to ask the manager. The public expects a musical critic to be a sort of walking thematic catalogue. The public is an ass.
THE SIX OTHER MEN
Oh, Lord! What a way to spend an afternoon!
A HUNDRED OF THE WOMEN
I wonder if he’s as handsome as Paderewski.
ANOTHER HUNDRED OF THE WOMEN
I wonder if he’s as gentlemanly as Josef Hofmann.
STILL ANOTHER HUNDRED WOMEN
I wonder if he’s as fascinating as De Pachmann.2
YET OTHER HUNDREDS
I wonder if he has dark eyes. You never can tell by those awful photographs in the newspapers.
HALF A DOZEN WOMEN
I wonder if he can really play the piano.
THE CRITIC AFORESAID
What a hell of a wait! These rotten piano-thumping immigrants deserve a hard call-down. But what’s the use? The piano manufacturers bring them over here to wallop their pianos—and the piano manufacturers are not afraid to advertise. If you knock them too hard you have a nasty bus iness-office row on your hands.
ONE OF THE MEN
If they allowed smoking, it wouldn’t be so bad.
ANOTHER MAN
I wonder if that woman across the aisle—
(THE GREAT PIANIST bounces upon the stage so suddenly that he is bowing in the center before any one thinks to applaud. He makes three stiff bows. At the second the applause begins, swelling at once to a roar. He steps up to the piano, bows three times more, and then sits down. He hunches his shoulders, reaches for the pedals with his feet, spreads out his hands and waits for the clapper clawing to cease. He is an undersized, paunchy East German, with hair the co l-or of wet hay, and an extremely pallid complexion. Talcum powder hides the fact that his nose is shiny and somewhat pink. His eyebrows are carefully penciled and there are artificial shadows under his eyes. His face is absolutely expressionless.)
THE VIRGIN
Oh!
THE MARRIED WOMAN
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 spark ling cascade of sound. But, despite the buoyancy of the music, there is an unmistakable under-current 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 in-to 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, Gemütlichk eit. 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 lilics-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 tomorrow 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! Ma y-be 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,3 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.4 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!
THE GREAT PIANIST
(Resuming his grim toil.) Well, there’s half of it over. But this scherzo is ticklish business. That horrible evening in Prague—will I ever forget it? Those hisses—and the papers next day!
ONE OF THE MEN
Go it, professor! That’s the best you’ve done yet!
ONE OF THE CRITICS
Too fast!
ANOTHER CRITIC
Too slow!
A YOUNG GIRL
My, but ain’t the professor just full of talent!
THE GREAT PIANIST
Well, so far no accident. (He negotiates a difficult passage, and plays it triumphantly, but at some expenditure of cold perspiration.) What a way for a man to make a living!
THE VIRGIN
What passion he puts into it! His soul is in his finger-tips.
A CRITIC
A human pianola!
THE GREAT PIANIST
This scherzo always fetches the women. I can hear them draw long breaths. That plump girl is getting pale. Well, why shouldn’t she? I suppose I’m about the best pianist she has ever heard—or ever will hear. What people can see in that Hambourg fellow I never could imagine. In Chopin, Schumann, Grieg, you might fairly say he’s pretty good. But it takes an artist to play Beethoven. (He rattles on to the end of the scherzo and there is more applause. Then he dashes into the finale.)
THE DEAN OF THE CRITICS
Too loud! Too loud! It sounds like an ashcart going down an alley. But what can you expect? Piano-playing is a lost art. Paderewski ruined it.
THE GREAT PIANIST
I ought to clear 200,000 marks by this tournee. If it weren’t for those thieving agents and hotelkeepers, I’d make 300,000. Just think of it—twenty-four marks a day for a room! That’s the way these Americans treat a visiting artist! The country is worse than Bulgaria. I was treated better at Bucharest. Well, it won’t last forever. As soon as I get enough of their money they’ll see me no more. Vienna is the place to settle down. A nice studio at fifty marks a month—and the life of a gentleman. What was the name of that little red-checked girl at the café in the Franzjosefstrasse—that girl with the gold tooth and the silk stockings? I’ll have to look her up.
THE VIRGIN
What an artist! What a master! What a—
THE MARRIED WOMAN
Has he really suffered, or is it just intuition?
THE GREAT PIANIST
No, marriage is a waste of money. Let the other fellow marry her. (He approaches the closing measures of the finale.) And now for a breathing spell and a swallow of beer. American beer! Bah! But it’s better than nothing. The Americans drink water. Cattle! Animals! Ach, München, wie bist du so schön!
(As he concludes there is a whirlwind of applause and he is forced to bow again and again. Finally, he is permitted to retire, and the audience prepares to spend the short intermission in whispering, grunting, wriggling, scraping its feet, rustling its programs and gaping at hats. The SIX MUSICAL CRITICS and SIX OTHER MEN, their lips parched and their eyes staring, gallop for the door. As THE GREAT PIANIST comes from the stage, THE JANITOR meets him with a large seidel of beer. He seizes it eagerly and downs it at a gulp.)
THE JANITOR
My, but them professors can put the stuff away!
In the Vestry Room
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ :
A Bridegroom.
A Best Man.
SCENE.
The vestry room of a Baltimore church. A pile of dog-eared hymn books in one corner. In the centre a decayed walnut table, with a green baize top—vintage of 1876. Four chairs of unearthly and mutually antagonistic designs. A clergyman’s plug hat on the table. A cracked mirror on the wall. Beside it are half a dozen hooks for hanging clothes and beyond them a thermometer. The latter registers 87½º Fahrenheit.
TIME.
A suffocating afternoon in early June.
As the curtain rises the Bridegroom and Best Man enter by the street door. They are dressed in hot, uncomfortable wedding coats, with high, glossy collars and white Ascot ties as thick as door mats. Beads of perspiration shine upon their foreheads. For a minute or two they stand there, regarding each other stupidly, saying ‘Whew!” “Oh!” and “Good Lord!” Then, with one accord, they take off their silk hats, tight gloves, frock coats and waistcoats and sink into chairs.
THE BEST MAN
Well, you picked out a scorcher for your wedding day.
THE BRIDEGROOM
(In bad humor) Who picked it out? I? Not on your life. I had nothing to do with it.
THE BEST MAN
All the same, you stood for it.
THE BRIDEGROOM
(Growing excited) What could I do? Such things are managed by the women. The Old Lady insisted on this week, and so I had to fall for it. As for me, I wanted to have it done and over in March.
THE BEST MAN
(Philosophically) Well, you’ve had your warning. Keep an eye on that mother-in-law. I don’t like her looks. I rather think she believes in slavery.
THE BRIDEGROOM
In what?
THE BEST MAN
In slavery. And if you don’t look sharp you’ll be the slave. She’ll have a clothespin on your nose before you know it.
THE BRIDEGROOM
Not on your life! You know me pretty well. I don’t eat out of anybody’s hand! (He goes to the mir
ror and begins to struggle nervously with his collar.)
THE BEST MAN
(Chuck ling) You don’t, don’t you?
THE BRIDEGROOM
I certainly do not.
THE BEST MAN
Well, then, how do you account for your presence here today?
THE BRIDEGROOM
(Oratorically) See here, what difference does it make whether I am married in March or married in June? In the long run what are the odds?
THE BEST MAN
True enough! What is the difference between dying of smallpox and dying of yellow fever? None at all!
THE BRIDEGROOM
Oh, very well! Go ahead! But let me tell you, if you have any curiosity about it, that in my house I am—(The organ in the church begins to sound. Apparently the organist is taking a hack at Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song.”) What’s that?
THE BEST MAN
Goodness knows. It sounds like a waltz.
THE BRIDEGROOM
(In a sudden panic) Waltz, your grandmother! It’s the wedding march! They are here! Come on! Get on your coat! (He jumps into his own waistcoat and coat, claps on his hat and tugs at his gloves. His complexion turns to a bluish white.)
THE BEST MAN
(Jumping up and laying hands on him) Be calm, old fellow, be calm. What’s the hurry? That isn’t the wedding march.
THE BRIDEGROOM
It isn’t?
THE BEST MAN
No, of course not. That’s just the little tune that the organist plays while the crowd is coming in. The wedding march starts with a loud smash. It goes like this: Bing, bing, debing! You can’t miss it. Trust to me.
THE BRIDEGROOM
But suppose they were to come in—and we didn’t start out in time! What an appalling mess it would make!
THE BEST MAN
Well, there’s no law against it. Nine-tenths of the people out there would be tickled to death. It would give a comic touch to the show. Ordinarily, it’s pretty dull.
