Chapter FOUR: At the Concert and the Opera

In order to listen to music intelligently—or what is really much
more important—in order to give the appearance of listening to
music intelligently, it is necessary for the novice to master
thoroughly two fundamental facts.

The first, and most important of these, is that the letter “w” in
Russian is pronounced like “v”; the second, that Rachmaninoff has
a daughter at Vassar.

Not very difficult, surely—but it is remarkable how much
enjoyment one can get out of music by the simple use of these two
formulas. With a little practise in their use, the veriest tyro
can bewilder her escort even though she be herself so musically
uninformed as to think that the celeste is only used in
connection with _Aïda_, or that a minor triad is perhaps a young
wood nymph.

One other important fundamental is that enthusiasm should never
be expressed for any music written after 1870; by a careful
observance of this rule one will constantly experience that
delightful satisfaction which comes with finding one’s opinions
shared by the music critics in the daily press.

Chivalry or the Instinct of Self-Preservation? A Fine Point _The young lady in the picture has just laid out a perfect drive. She had, unfortunately, neglected to wait until the gentleman playing ahead of her had progressed more than fifteen yards down the fairway, and her ball, traveling at a velocity of 1675 f.s., has caught the gentleman squarely in the half-pint bottle. What mistake, if any, is the gentleman making in chasing her off the course with his niblick, if we assume that she called “Fore!” when the ball had attained to within three feet of the gentleman?_

An Inexperienced “Gun” _You will exclaim, no doubt, on looking at the scene depicted above, “Cherchez la femme.” It is, however, nothing so serious as you will pardonably suppose. The gentleman is merely an inexperienced “gun” at a shooting-party, who has begun following his bird before it has risen above the head of his loader. This very clumsy violation of the etiquette of sport proves, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he has learned to shoot from the comic papers, and that his coat-of-arms can never again be looked upon as anything but bogus._

LISTENING TO A SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA

The first thing to do on arriving at a symphony concert is to
express the wish that the orchestra will play Beethoven’s Fifth.
If your companion then says “Fifth what?” you are safe with him
for the rest of the evening; no metal can touch you. If, however,
he says “So do I”—this is a danger signal and he may require
careful handling.

The next step is a glance at the program. If your escort is quite
good looking and worth cultivating, the obvious remark is “Oh
dear—not a very interesting program, to-night. But George—_look_
at what they are playing next Thursday! My, I wish—.” If George
shies at this, it can be tried again later—say during an
“appassionato” passage for the violins and cellos.

As soon as the music starts, all your attention should be
directed toward discovering someone who is making a
noise—whispering or coughing; having once located such a
creature, you should immediately “sh-sh” him. Should he continue
the offence, a severe frown must accompany the next “sh-sh,” a
lorgnette—if available—adding great effectiveness to the rebuke.
This will win you the gratitude of your neighbors and serve to
establish your position socially, as well as musically—for
perfect “sh-shers” do not come from the lower classes.

At the conclusion of the first number the proper remark is
“hmmm,” accompanied by a slow shake of the head. After this you
may use any one of a number of remarks, as for example, “Well, I
suppose Mendelssohn appeals to a great many people,” or “That was
meaningless enough to have been written by a Russian.” This
latter is to be preferred, for it leads your companion to say,
“But don’t you like TschaiKOWsky?”, pronouncing the second
syllable as if the composer were a female bull. You can then
reply, “Why, yes, TschaiKOFFsky _did_ write some rather good
music—although it’s all neurotic and obviously Teutonic.” Don’t
fail to stress the “v.”

The next number on the program will probably be the soloist—say,
a coloratura soprano. Your first remark should be that you don’t
really care for the human voice—the reason being, of course, that
symphonic Music, ABSOLUTE music, has spoiled you for things like
vocal gymnastics. This leads your bewildered friend to ask you
what sort of soloist you prefer.

Ans.—Why, a piano concerto, of course.

Ques.—And who is your favorite pianist?

Ans.—Rachmaninoff. And then, before the boy has time to breathe
—SHOOT! _“Did you knoow that he has a daughter at Vassar?”_

Although not necessary, it might be well to finish off the poor
fellow at the end of the concert with one or two well placed
depth bombs. My own particular favorite for this is the
following, accompanied by a low sigh: “After all—Beethoven IS
Beethoven.”

CORRECT BEHAVIOR AT A PIANO RECITAL

The same procedure is recommended for the piano or violin
recital, with the possible addition of certain phrases such as
“Yes—of course, she has technique—but, my dear, so has an
electric piano.” This remark gives you a splendid opportunity for
sarcasm at the expense of Mr. Duo-Art and other manufacturers of
mere mechanical perfection; the word “soul”—pronounced with deep
feeling, as when repeating a fish order to a stupid waiter—may be
introduced effectively several times.

The program at these recitals is likely to be more complex than
that at a symphony concert. This is a distinct advantage, for it
gives you a splendid opportunity to catch some wretch applauding
before the music is really finished. Nothing is quite comparable
to the satisfaction of smiling knowingly at your neighbors when
this _faux pas_ is committed, unless it be the joy of being the
first to applaud at the _real_ conclusion. This latter course,
however, is fraught with danger for the beginner; the chances for
errors in judgment are many, and the only sure way to avoid
anachronistic applause is to play the safe game and refrain
altogether from any expression of approval—a procedure which is
heartily recommended for the musically ignorant, it being also
the practise among the majority of the critics.

IN A BOX AT THE OPERA

The opera differs from the symphony concert, or piano recital, in
the same way that the army drill command of “At Ease!” differs
from “Rest!” When one of these orders (I never could remember
which is given to a battalion in formation), it signifies that
talking is permitted; opera, of course, corresponds to that
command.

Before the invention of the phonograph it was often necessary for
the opera goer to pay some attention to the performance—at least
while certain favorite arias were being sung; this handicap to
the enjoyment of opera has now fortunately been overcome and one
can devote one’s entire attention to other more important things,
safe in one’s knowledge that one has Galli-Curci at home on the
Vic.

In order really to get the most out of an opera a great deal of
study and preparation is required in advance; I have not space at
this time to cover these preliminaries thoroughly, but would
recommend to the earnest student such supplemental information as
can be obtained from Lady Duff-Gordon, or Messrs. Tiffany, Técla
and Pinaud.

Upon entering one’s box the true opera lover at once assumes a
musical attitude; this should be practised at home, by my lady,
before a mirror until she is absolutely sure that the shoulders
and back can be seen from any part of the house. Then, with the
aid of a pair of strong opera glasses, she may proceed to
scrutinize carefully the occupants of the boxes—noting carefully
any irregular features. Technical phraseology, useful in this
connection, includes “unearthly creature,” “stray leopard” or,
simply, “that person.”

Your two magical formulas—the Russian “w” and the sad story about
Rachmaninoff’s daughter—may, of course, be held in reserve—but
the chances are that you will be unable to use them, for during
an evening at the opera there will probably be no mention of
music.