no; i’m not going to be a chronicler in this chapter. it sounds a dull subject, i know, but many things happened in gloucester, hereford and worcester in mellow september days that were vastly amusing and which were not reported in the papers, and it is about these i am going to tell you.
it used to be very charming to go to one of these cathedrals early each autumn, drink cider, listen to music six hours a day, walk by the river, have jolly “rags” in the hotel at night, and come home again at the end of a week or ten days. september is a tired month, i always think ... if not tired, a little languorous.... it has many days in which one wants to walk about just quietly, enjoying being alive. it would be wrong to fuss and work really hard. i suppose that in all those wonderful places in which i have spent so many happy weeks—worcester, lincoln, gloucester, hereford, norwich—people ruminate and browse at all times. certainly i have seen them browsing in herds in september days. i once watched the bishop of hereford browsing. he stood perfectly still and seemed to be contemplating and measuring and gently wondering about the growth of a healthy nasturtium.
everybody used to migrate to these festivals. well, not quite everybody ... but you know what i mean; just the very people you most awfully wanted to meet again and talk to and hear music with: people like granville bantock, ernest newman, samuel langford, john coates, dr mcnaught, frederic austin, herbert hughes. 188london used to send thirty or forty critics, and the provinces about the same number. and from the surrounding towns would pour in county families, middle-class families anxious (poor deluded ones!) to keep abreast of the musical times (or do i mean the musical times?), maiden ladies still and for ever ecstatic over mendelssohn’s poor old elijah, fierce choir-masters with ideas on choral singing, village organists who really believed that dr brewer was the last word, immaculate young men with æsthetic fever and a decided leaning towards elgar’s the dream of gerontius (always alluded to by them as the dream), very “nee-ice” young ladies who when at home played the violin, and, last of all, deans (oh yes, lots of deans), minor canons, slim curates, parsons of all kinds, squires without money, squarsons.
it was hard for us musical critics to take these festivals quite as seriously as the festivals expected us to do, for it always seemed incredible to us that london or birmingham or glasgow should have the least desire to know how the choruses of handel’s the messiah were sung in a little town like gloucester. moreover, many of us were amused at the tragic seriousness of these age-old festivals—festivals at which, as a rule, only two new works of any importance were produced and over which old oratorios—an impossible form of art—hung like a heavy cloud. so we used to amuse ourselves in our different ways, and the ringleaders in our occasional rags were generally granville bantock and ernest newman.
almost every detail of one of these joyous occasions lingers in my memory. dr mcnaught, the doyen of us all, an experienced critic, a witty speaker, and a most profound musician, was the not unwilling victim. bantock or, to give him his full title, professor granville bantock, m.a., had brought from birmingham two live eels in a tank. when he bought these sturdy creatures, he must have had in his mind some jollification or other, and when 189i met him in the streets of hereford (i think it was hereford) during the morning of the festival’s first day, he asked me what was the most amusing thing i could think of that could be done with two live eels.
“eels!” exclaimed i, in amazement. “do you mean to tell me that you really possess two live eels?”
“yes, here in hereford. one gets a little dull here after a couple of hours, and, after all, eels are very lively fry. they break the monotony of life.” he paused a moment. “and,” he added rather dreamily, “they swish their tails so busily. i suppose an eel’s tail is the busiest thing in the world. come and have a look; they’re in my room at the hotel.”
and there they were in a tank: dark objects in dark water, swirling about with enormous enthusiasm.
the day passed and no amusing idea occurred to me. bantock conducted one of his works in the cathedral that evening—a very important and solemn occasion, and when we critics had left our “copy” at the post-office for telegraphic transmission to our respective newspapers, we foregathered in the hotel.
now dr mcnaught had gone to spend the late hours with a friend and was not expected back till nearly midnight; it became obvious, therefore, both to bantock and myself, that the eels must, in some way, be made to surprise him on his return. we placed the slimy creatures in a washhand basin in his bedroom, poured water upon them, and gazed down upon them with knitted brows.
“it is enough,” said bantock; “there is no need to think of anything else. listen.”
and, truly, there was a most stealthy and uncouth sort of noise. eels may have soft skins, but their muscles are hard and, as they careered round the basin, one heard a continuous smooth sound as of people going about some nefarious business in the dark, and now and again, 190at unexpected moments, a loud thwack would be heard as one of the fish threw his tail upon the side of the basin.
newman and frederic austin and one or two others collaborated in preparing our scheme. a female figure was made, carefully placed on the middle of dr mcnaught’s pillow, and gently covered to the neck with the bedclothes.
these elaborate arrangements for dr mcnaught’s entertainment were only just completed when the doctor himself returned. we waited in dark corners of the corridor for the result.
after an interval of a few minutes, a bell rang and a chambermaid appeared.
“there is some mistake, i think,” said dr mcnaught genially. “either this room is a bedroom, a larder, or an aquarium; it would be most good of you if you would decide as soon as possible which it really is.”
the chambermaid entered the bedroom and we could just hear her quiet voice as, a moment later, she half whispered:
“but, sir, the room is already occupied. there is a lady in your bed.”
of course, the psychological moment had arrived, and we strolled casually into the bedroom to become witnesses of dr mcnaught’s embarrassment. the jape was continued. mcnaught was taken to the smoke-room, solemnly tried by judge and jury for having murdered a woman and concealed her body (it was at the time of the crippen affair), and sentenced to death. newman brought a hatchet from the cellar and, not long before dawn, the mock sentence was carried out with elaborate pantomime....
“very childish—just like schoolboys!” i hear a reader (not you, of course) say, rather contemptuously. yes, it was like schoolboys, and substitute “-like” for “-ish” in “childish” and i agree with you most heartily.
. . . . . . . .
191but not all our time was spent in this uproarious way. there were long hours of talk, great talk from langford of the manchester guardian, a man of mature years whom to meet is a privilege and whom to know intimately is a blessing; witty, rather cruel, but vastly entertaining talk from newman; pungent talk from bantock; and general gossip from all kinds of people.
i do remember so regretfully—regretfully, because i do not think a like occasion can happen again—an afternoon that langford and i spent sitting at a little rustic table under a just yellowing grove of poplars. langford’s mind is spacious, most richly stored. nothing can happen that does not at once and without effort fit into his philosophy of life, and though his talk is profound it is so greatly human that, in listening to him, one feels completely at rest. he accepts everything.... i daresay you have noticed that many people have tried to describe the effect walt whitman’s personality has had on them, and you will have observed how they have all failed. it is an impossible task.... and i feel that in writing about langford it is impossible to convey to you what he stands for to his friends. i recollect captain j. e. agate once saying to me: “i never come away from speaking to langford without feeling what an empty fool i am.” yes, that is true; yet, at the same time, you feel reconciled to your own empty folly; besides, you know well enough that if you were a fool langford would not talk to you; he would just ask you to have a drink and then he would fumble clumsily in his waistcoat pocket to find you a cigarette.
langford will never be “successful” in the worldly sense. perhaps he looks with suspicion on success; certainly he has never attempted to achieve it. i imagine that his nature is very like that of æ, and if what everyone says of æ is true, one cannot conceive that anything finer could be said of anyone than that he resembles the great irish poet.
192it was these refreshing talks with various people that did something to mitigate the severity of the atmosphere of conventionality, of “respectability” in its worst sense, that made it rather difficult to breathe freely in these cathedral cities. everyone wore new clothes; men perspired in kid gloves; girls carried prayer-books and copies of elijah; deans were dapper; ostlers were clean and profoundly polite; and, wherever you went, you heard people saying that they had seen lord bertie and lady jane, and had you noticed that the dear bishop had looked a little tired last evening? there was, too, about these festivals an air as of a society function. music, an unwilling handmaid of charity, was “indulged” in. one did not have music every day, for that would have been frivolous; but one had it in great lumps every twelve months, and had it, not because one cannot live fully and vividly without art, but because it made a good excuse for a social “occasion.” the music itself was excused—for in the minds of these people it required an excuse—by the fact that the entire festival was organised for charity, that vice which causes so many sins.
i myself came into rather violent conflict with the norfolk and norwich musical festival authorities on a question of artistic morality. ten or eleven years ago they offered a prize of twenty-five guineas for a poem, and another prize of fifty guineas for the best musical setting of the poem. i entered the former competition and secured the prize. my “poem” was in blank verse and lyrics, its subject cleopatra, and it contained the following passage:
iris. and when with regal, arrogant step she passed
across the portico, her white breasts gleamed;
her neck seemed conscious of its loveliness;
her lips, tired of tame kisses, parted with
the expectancy of proud assault; she was
as one who lives for a last carnival
193of love, in which she may be stabbed and torn
by large excess of passion.
charmion.oh! our queen
has wine for blood; her tears are heavy drops
of water stolen from some brackish sea
or murderous waves; her heart now leaps with life
and now lies sleeping like a coilèd snake.
but in to-night’s cold moon she burns and glows;
her heart is housing many a mad desire,
and she is sick for antony.
iris.the day
has gone, and soon they’ll drink the heady wine
that sparkles in each other’s eyes. once more
venus and bacchus meet, and all the world
stands still to watch the bliss of living gods.
there was a little more to the same effect, and when i wrote the stuff i thought it very fine and still think it rather pretty. but a section of the musical press attacked it violently, and for a couple of months i was quite a notorious person. i gathered from the articles and letters that appeared that my dramatic poem was not likely to engender music that would carry on the tradition of mendelssohn’s elijah. that had been my object in writing it. i was sick of that tradition. i wished to help to break it.
one day, while the little storm was still raging, i received a letter from sir henry j. wood, who was to conduct the festival at norwich at which my work was to be given. (mr julius harrison, who has since become prominent as one of sir thomas beecham’s assistant conductors, had gained the prize for the musical setting of my poem.) in his letter sir henry wrote: “very much against my will, i am writing to ask you on behalf of the committee of the norfolk and norwich festival if it is possible for you to make any alternative version of the ‘two objectionable lines’ (i fail to find them myself) in your libretto, cleopatra.... from my point of view, the whole thing is absurd and ridiculous.”
194i could not find the objectionable lines. i showed the poem to a most maiden aunt and watched her as she read it, hoping to tell by her sudden blush when her eyes had reached the evil place. she did not blush; she simply read the thing and said: “oh, gerald, how nice! i do think you have such pretty thoughts.” so did i.
a few days later mr julius harrison came to my aid. the committee, it appeared, objected to “her white breasts gleamed” and also to:
her lips, tired of tame kisses, parted with
the expectancy of proud assault....
i changed those lines, and the work in due course was performed at norwich, and in queen’s hall, london. later on, when my little poem was sung in southport in its original form, with mr havergal brian’s music (for he also had honoured me), mr landon ronald conducting, the members of the audience did not leave their seats when the “objectionable” lines occurred; rather did they seem to lean forward a little and listen more intently.
i have mentioned this incident, not because in itself it is important, but because it so beautifully illustrates the point of view of our cathedral festivals. their “secular” concerts are echoes of the concerts given in the cathedral. they hate (or else they are afraid of?) every emotion that is not a religious emotion. they think that god made our souls and the devil our bodies. they may be right; if they are, it is clear the devil is not lacking in consideration.
. . . . . . . .
there is no doubt that our most ecstatic moments at the cathedral festivals were supplied by wagner’s parsifal, which mr j. f. runciman, in his little book on this composer, describes as “this disastrous and evil opera.” only excerpts from it, of course, were given; all “objectionable lines” were cut out. if parsifal is to 195be given on the platform at all—and, in view of the fact that we seldom have it on the stage, why not?—then it had better be given on a platform that has been erected in a spacious and beautiful cathedral. i remember those white voices floating down from a place out of sight near the roof, away above the clerestory. i always used to try to obtain a seat near some dimly stained window so that it might for me blot out the rather bewildered or consciously “rapt” faces of my fellow-creatures, for, in listening to noble music, i invariably feel much greater than, and curiously irritated by the presence of, other people.
and it used to be so fine to come forth from the cathedral at noon, step into that mellow september english sunshine which i have not seen for nearly three years, and walk by the river ... walk perhaps a mile or so and come back to the hotel to eat cool meats and cool salads and drink cool wine. it was at these times i used to sigh and long for bayreuth and wonder if i should ever see the grave of wagner in the garden of villa wahnfried in that little bavarian town.
it was at gloucester, i think, that one year i was pursued by a certain hard-working, but not very talented, composer who, having gained a most extensive “popular” public for his work, was now anxious to win the suffrage of more cultivated people. most unhappily for me, he took it into his head that my musical criticism had some influence in the north, and though he was quite wrong in this assumption, i was never able to convince him of his error. wherever i went, lo! he was there with me. and always under his arm was a musical score, a score of his own composition. something new, he assured me; something really quite modern. would i look at it? i did. it was feeble, paltry and bombastic, but i did not like to tell him so. but when he pressed me for an opinion i said, what was near enough to the truth, that it was a great advance on his previous work. this seemed to 196please him, and he took to inviting me out to lunch. if ever i went into the hotel smoke-room for a quiet pipe, i would invariably notice a vague but self-important figure in the doorway, and presently would hear the unmistakable pop that a champagne bottle so deliciously makes when it is opened. a bubbling glass would be placed at my side.
“now, richard strauss in his ein heldenleben ...” his voice would begin. and he would proceed to tell me all about ein heldenleben and its beauties. to bewilder him, i used to assert that carmen seemed to me a much finer work than strauss’s elektra, and, because he was very ignorant and because he had not the slightest appreciation of strauss, he used to look at me rather pitifully, and would eventually confess that he too liked bizet more than he liked strauss and that, indeed, it appeared to him that arthur sullivan....
one day, when we were alone, he asked me if i would write a series of articles on his works. it was my turn to be bewildered.
“a series?” i asked, utterly stunned.
“yes,” answered he, “a series. first of all, there are my part-songs. then there are my instrumental pieces. last of all, my cantatas.” he pronounced cantatas with a capital c. “just a short series: three articles in all.”
i hesitated, but he looked at me most pleadingly. i tried a little sarcasm, but that made him more pertinacious than ever. so then i flatly refused, and kept on refusing, and did not stop refusing.
“well, then,” said he at length, “will you put in writing and sign what you said to me the other day about my new work? you will remember that you said it was the best thing i had ever done, that it was original, full of vigour, astonishingly fresh, subtle in harmony....”
“oh, really,” i protested, “did i say all that?”
“yes, indeed, you did.”
197and then i became very, very rude indeed, and, after that, whenever we met, we used to bow to each other most politely and say never a word.
this kind of man, and there is quite a handful of them, haunts the more important festivals, but it must be very rarely that one of them obtains what he desires.
. . . . . . . .
can you recall the most curious and most unlikely sight you have ever witnessed? most of us, even in the course of a few years of a very ordinary existence, witness many strange things, but of all the strange things i have stumbled across nothing has been so wayward, so outré, so fundamentally silly, as the forty organists i saw sitting in one room at worcester. one can imagine two, or even three, organists sitting talking together, but forty, and fifteen of the forty cathedral organists, seems incredible.
now, you have only to be fond of modern music to feel instinctively that a man who is an organist and nothing else is sitting on the wrong side of the fence. in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred he is helping to hold things back; he hates the rapid progress which music is making, and he has as much imagination as the vox humana stop.
well, the forty organists were sitting and talking and smoking, and as i looked at them and at their mild, but worried, faces, it seemed to me and my companion that, in the interests of art, morality and ordinary decency, some protest should be made. and we decided that we were just the people to make it. we could have forgiven them if they had met together to discuss some professional question—e.g. how to get their salaries raised, how to get the better of their respective vicars, or how they could expand their minds so as to be able to appreciate debussy or ravel or even max reger. but they were gathered together merely because they liked it, just for the sake of enjoying each other’s society. monstrous absurdity! could they not see how ridiculous they were? forty 198organists in one room!—why, there ought not to be forty organists in the whole world.
fortunately the room was on the ground floor and the hour late. my companion and i stepped outside the hotel, waited till the street was quiet, and then rapped a series of three tattoos upon the window-pane to secure silence within. we then sang in two parts, i in a high falsetto and my friend in a lugubrious bass, the “baal” chorus from elijah. “baal, we cry to thee! baal, we cry to thee!”
we had not proceeded very far in this beautiful music—intended by the dear, delicious mendelssohn for a shout of savagery, but really a quite charming cradle song—when a cry of delighted laughter came from the room, and two or three of the organists, hatless and earnest, rushed out into the street.
“come inside!” they said; “come and join us. you belong to us!”
too utterly flabbergasted at this invitation to make any reply, we turned and fled, rushed back to our hotel, and ordered whisky-and-sodas.
the great musician to whom we told the story next day said:
“well, once more, you see, the biters were bit.”
but my friend and i did not think so.
