As a commercial asset, Joseph Bennett must have been invaluable6 to the proprietors7 of The Daily Telegraph. For, like Davison, he had great influence. People read him. Even in my own time, when an important new work was produced, we used to question each other: “What does Old Joe say?” And, most unfortunately, it mattered a great deal what Old Joe did say, though anyone who knew much about music was very well aware that nine times out of ten Bennett would be wrong. If he damned a work—well, that work was damned. No 144musical critic to-day wields8 such power as his, though there are at least a score of writers on music who have ten times his gifts. His present successor, for example, Mr Robin9 Legge, is incomparably a finer musician, a much more open-minded man, and a student of infinitely10 more culture, than Bennett. Yet his influence, I imagine, is not so great as that of his predecessor11. One cannot say that Bennett stooped to his public, for Bennett could not stoop; if he had stooped, he would have disappeared altogether. No: he was the public: the people: the common people. He had the point of view of the man in the back street.
But to-day things are changed. The musical critic is no longer primarily a raconteur12, a gossiper, a chatterer. As a rule, he is a man of culture, of experience, of solid musical attainments13. He earns little—anything from one hundred and fifty pounds to five hundred pounds a year, though, no doubt, in very rare instances, he may be paid more than the latter figure. Musical criticism, therefore, is not a profession that seduces14 the ambitious man, for the ambitious man of materialistic15 views may more easily earn three times what the Press has to offer him by selling imitation jewellery or doing anything else that money-making people do. When E. A. Baughan, now dramatic critic of The Daily News, was editing The Musical Standard more than twenty years ago, he wrote me a very earnest letter beseeching16 me not to become a musical critic on account of the payment being so meagre. “If you have a desk, stick to it; if you are a commercial traveller, remain a commercial traveller” was his advice in essence. But I would rather be a musical critic on one hundred and fifty pounds a year than a stockbroker17 earning fifteen hundred pounds. I love money, but I love music and journalism18 more, and the three years I spent in Manchester with an income of three hundred pounds were full of happiness, brimful of great days when I 145felt my mind growing and my spirit taking unto itself wings.
E. A. Baughan is not, I think, a musician in the true sense of the word, nor does he claim to be, but I imagine that, being musical and having the itch19 for writing, he took the first journalistic work that offered itself. That work was the editing of The Musical Standard. Subsequently he went to The Morning Leader as musical critic, and then to The Daily News as dramatic critic. He is sane20, level-headed, honest, but not conspicuously21 brilliant. His musical work, judged by a high standard, was poor. He had not sufficient knowledge to guide him to a right judgment22 when faced by a new problem. Hugo Wolf was such a problem, and if ever Baughan reads now what he wrote about Hugo Wolf some fifteen years ago, he must, I imagine, tingle23 with shame to the tips of his toes.
As a dramatic critic he has secured an honourable24 and enviable position. I used to meet him very frequently at first nights, and always thought him a trifle blasé and almost wholly devoid25 of imagination, subtlety26 and true artistic27 feeling. He has not the artist’s attitude towards life, and he would probably bring an action for slander28 against you if you said he had.
. . . . . . . .
I was never introduced to C. L. Graves, the musical critic of The Spectator and the well-known humorous writer, but on one occasion I sat next to him at a very important concert, and in conversation found him an extremely courteous29 but rather baffled man. His knowledge of music is that of the cultured amateur. His mind but grudgingly30 admits “advanced” work, and I, as a modern, regret that an intellect so charming, so gracious, so able, should be even occasionally occupied in passing judgment on work that has its being entirely31 outside his mental horizon. But I doubt very much if The Spectator has any influence on the musical life of London, though I 146imagine that Dr Brewer32, Mr T. H. Noble, Sir Hubert Parry, Sir Charles V. Stanford and Sir Alexander Mackenzie read Mr Graves with regularity33 and approval.
. . . . . . . .
But the man whom all of us who write about music honour most of all is Ernest Newman, of The Birmingham Daily Post. Here we have a first-rate intellect functioning with absolute sureness and with almost fierce rapidity. As a scholar, no man is better equipped; as a writer, he ranks with the highest; for fearlessness and inflexible34 intellectual honesty, he has no equal. His books on Wagner and Hugo Wolf and the volume entitled Musical Studies are head and shoulders above any volumes of musical criticism ever published in our language. But though his knowledge of music is encyclopædic, music is but one of many subjects upon which he is an authority. Under another name he has published a volume on philosophy which, on its appearance, created something like a sensation; unfortunately, this book ceased to be procurable35 within a few weeks of its publication. Poetry, French and German literature, sociology and psychology36 are but a few of the subjects upon which he is as well qualified37 to write as he is on music.
Why does he hide himself in Birmingham? Well, if you are a musical critic in London, it is impossible to do any solid work. All day and almost every day you are at concerts and operas, and you are sadly in danger of becoming a mere38 reporter. Newman’s post in Birmingham leaves him some leisure in which to write more important work.
I never think of Newman without wondering if ever he will be given the chance to achieve the work that is nearest his heart. That work is a full and complete history of music. For this task he is intellectually well equipped, but the labour in which it would involve him calls for years of leisure. Time and again he has planned 147work—notably, a book on Montaigne—which, for lack of leisure, he has been compelled to abandon. He was made for finer things than newspaper work, and though he has made an indelible impression on musical thought in this and other countries, his life will be largely wasted if the latter half of it has to be spent in writing daily criticism and occasional articles.
Newman’s psychology is peculiarly complex. Though there is a vein39 of cruelty in him, he is yet sensitive to the suffering of other people. I was with him on one occasion when Bantock told him that a certain enemy of his (Newman’s) had just died. The effect of this news on Newman was to me most unexpected. He started a little. “Good God!” he said; “poor, poor devil.” And for the rest of the evening he sat gloomy and silent. The thought of death is intolerable to him. His repulsion from it is as much physical as nervous. Though, on occasion, a stern and relentless40 critic, he reacts morbidly41 to criticism of himself. He is highly strung, imaginative, rationalistic; he believes little and trusts not at all, loves intensely and hates bitterly. Vain he is, also, and he clings almost despairingly to what remains42 of his youth.
It is some few years since I saw Newman in close intimacy43, but when he was on the staff of The Manchester Guardian44 and, later on, when he removed to Birmingham, I was at his house very frequently, and a very small circle of friends used to pass long evenings in delicious fooling. In those days Newman could throw off twenty-five years of his age and become a high-spirited and impish boy. I remember one night when, a macabre45 mood or, rather, a mood of extravagantly46 high spirits having descended47 upon us, one of our company, a lady, simulated sudden illness and death. We dressed her in a shroud48, placed pennies on her eyes and candles at her head and feet. But in the middle of this foolery, Newman disappeared, and when it was all over and he had returned, he was in a 148sombre mood. It was not because we had trifled with a terrible fact in life that he was disturbed and distrait49, but because we had unwittingly cut into his shrinking mind and hurt it by reminding him of something he would fain forget. Insanity50 repelled51 him in the same violent manner, and all who knew him intimately when he was writing his book on Hugo Wolf will remember that Wolf’s warped52 and poisoned psychology obsessed53 and dominated him.
But often Newman would spend an evening in playing modern songs to us—Bantock’s Ferishtah’s Fancies, Wolf’s Mörike Lieder, and so on. I can see him now as, his clever, rather saturnine54 face abundantly alive, he described Richard Strauss’s Ein Heldenleben, telling us how the music of the harps55 stained the texture56 of the music in a magical way, like one flinging wine on some secretly coloured fabric57. Those evenings are to me among the most valued of my life. I remember how my wife and I used to walk home under a long avenue of trees very late in the spring nights, the gummy smell of buds in our nostrils58, Newman’s voice still in our ears, and our minds fermenting59 deliciously with a kind of happiness we had not experienced before.
Those days are gone for ever: days of a recovered youth; evenings that were romantic just because they were evenings; nights when, in silence, one dreamed long and long, the body sunk deep in unconsciousness, the soul ranging and mounting and, in the morning, returning to its home subtly changed and infinitely refreshed.... Newman opened for me a world which, but for him, I do not think I ever should have beheld60; nor, indeed, should I ever have been aware of that world’s existence.
. . . . . . . .
I have written of Samuel Langford elsewhere in this book, and I have little to add here. He succeeded Newman on The Manchester Guardian, and I recall the curiosity with which many of us read his first articles, fearing that 149anything he might write must of necessity fall so far below Newman’s high standard as to be unreadable. We were soon reassured61. Langford and Newman have little in common, and there is no basis upon which one can compare them. And, at first, Langford had to feel his way, to master his métier, to acquire some of his literary technique....
Our respective newspaper offices were situated62 near each other, and on our way from the Free Trade Hall he used often to persuade me to drink with him before we began our work. “We shall do each other good,” he would say. And his short, ungainly figure, with its thick neck carrying a nobly-shaped head, would make its way to the bar where, placing a pile of music on the counter, he would turn to me and talk, both of us forgetting to order our drinks, and neither of us caring for the lateness of the hour.... Next morning, he would frequently come round to my house immediately after breakfast, look in at the window of my study, and wave a newspaper in the air. I was always deep in work, for at that time I reviewed eight or ten books every week, but I remember no occasion on which I did not welcome him most gladly. And sometimes I would spend an afternoon in his great garden, worshipping flowers, and watch him as, with fumbling63 hands, he turned the face of a blossom to the sky and looked at it with I know not what thoughts. I know nothing of horticulture, but Langford knows everything, and often he would talk, more to himself than to me, about the deep mysteries of his science. And, saying farewell at the little gate, he would sometimes crush into my arms a large sheaf of coloured leaves and flowers, wave an awkward hand, and shamble back to his low-built, picturesque64 house set deep in blooms. Though twenty years my senior, neither he nor I felt the long spell of years lying between us. And sometimes I am tempted65 to go back to Manchester to renew a friendship for the 150loss of which all the great happiness that London has brought me has, it seems at times, been but inadequate66 compensation.
. . . . . . . .
During my three years as musical critic on The Manchester Courier I had some curious experiences, and to me the most curious of them all was the persistent67 manner in which attempts were made by people in Berlin to enlist68 my sympathies on behalf of an extremely able musician, Oskar Fried. It almost seemed to me that a secret society existed in Germany for the sole purpose of getting Oskar Fried a job in England. Letters written in English came to me from total strangers, informing me at great length and with stupid tautology69 that Fried was the one hope of musical Young Germany. He had Ideals; he was a Leader; he had the Prophetic Vision; he was the man who was going to promote and lead a new Romantic Movement. “Very good,” said I to myself, “but what on earth has all this to do with me?”
I was not long in finding out. A young Englishman resident in Berlin, and obviously deeply saturated70 with the German spirit, wrote to me to say that, in his opinion, Fried was the only man in Europe to fill the post that Dr Richter had vacated as conductor of the Hallé Concerts Society in Manchester. The letter arrived at a time when various musicians were being, as it were, “tried” as conductors of the Hallé Concerts, and my unknown correspondent was anxious that Fried should be invited to conduct one or two concerts. To this letter I sent a polite but non-committal reply. I knew Oskar Fried’s name just as I knew the names of a dozen pushing German conductors; but I knew no more. My persistent correspondent, to whom I will give the name of Purvis, wrote again, sending me a typewritten copy of a book he had written on his friend. It was a highfalutin document of idolatry. Fried was his idol71, and Purvis gushed72 and gushed 151and gushed again. But the whole thing was done with truly Germanic thoroughness. I felt that I was being “got at,” and though I resented it, I was greatly amused. I led him on. I was anxious to see this gushing73 disciple74, this seeming advertising75 agent, this, as it appeared to me, wholly Germanised Englishman. So I replied to him a second time, and one evening he called upon me. He was a boy of twenty-one with a beard, a manner that was intended to be ingratiating but was intolerably insolent76, and a self-assurance truly Napoleonic. He tickled77 me hugely and, as I have more than a grain of malice78 in me, I opened out to him, flattered him heavily, and talked music with him. But, though he loved the flattery, he was level-headed enough to stick to his point—that I should do all in my power to secure for Oskar Fried the Hallé conductorship. And he ended the interview with the astonishing announcement that Fried had already been engaged by the Hallé Concerts Society to conduct two of their concerts.
By what devious79 and subterranean80 ways this was achieved, I do not know, but I have no doubt that scores of influential81 Germans in Manchester were approached in a similar way to what I was.
Oskar Fried, with his idolatrous lackey82, came uninvited to my house. They arrived at ten and left at six. I found Fried a very remarkable83 man—magnetic, of forceful personality, but with the manners and point of view of a gutter-snipe. He asked me point-blank what I could do for him.
“In what way?” I asked him, through Purvis, our interpreter.
“It is obvious in what way,” returned Purvis, without passing on the question to Fried.
“Well,” said I, “I have already written about Fried in the papers. And, really, I have no influence. I am not very popular with the Hallé Concerts Society people, and if I were to begin to recommend Fried.... But, in any 152case, I have not yet heard your friend conduct. It is impossible for me to recommend a man of whose talents I know nothing save by hearsay84. You see that, don’t you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Purvis. “You are a musical critic in Manchester, whilst I am a musical critic in Berlin, and I tell you that Fried is the man you want here. Surely that is enough? You must take it from me. I say it.”
I smiled and, glancing at Fried, watched his thin, eager face, with its peering eyes which looked inquiringly first at Purvis and then at me.
Purvis came next day and the day after that, and I began to wonder in precisely85 what relation he stood to Fried. When together, they seemed to be just business friends, and it occurred to me that the long typewritten Life of Fried that Purvis had written was merely a gigantic piece of bluff86. Finally, I decided87 to cut both men adrift altogether, and the next time Purvis called I was out.
When I heard Fried conduct, I at once recognised his great powers: he had undoubted genius. But he was never invited to become the permanent conductor of the Hallé Concerts Society. Perchance his table manners were adversely88 reported upon by Dr Brodsky, or Mr Gustave Behrens, or the discreet89 and reserved Mr Forsyth.
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1
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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wields
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的第三人称单数 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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raconteur
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| n.善讲故事者 | |
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attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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seduces
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| 诱奸( seduce的第三人称单数 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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15
materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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grudgingly
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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procurable
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| adj.可得到的，得手的 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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macabre
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| adj.骇人的，可怖的 | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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51
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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54
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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55
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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58
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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fermenting
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的现在分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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60
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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61
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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62
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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65
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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tautology
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| n.无谓的重复；恒真命题 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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72
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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84
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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86
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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87
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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adversely
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| ad.有害地 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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