MUSIC.
THE ORCHESTRAL PLAYERS.
IT is strange that when so much attention is concentrated on orchestral music, so little should be known outside professional circles of the men who make it. The last couple of decades have witnessed the rise of the conductor into public prominence, and the personnel of the band has to some small extant profited by this new-found prestige. But it is wonderful how little the average concert-goer-----we are not speaking of those who have studied at a conservatoire or played in an amateur orchestra—knows of the constitution of the orchestra or the timbres of the different instruments outside the leading strings,—how few, in other words, can tell blind- fold the tones of the oboe from those. of the clarinet, or can distinguish between the soft notes of trumpets, horns, and trombones. Analytical programmes and the practice of printing the names of the members of the orchestra have to a certain extent remedied this imperfect knowledge, for the auditor on being told, e.g., that the subject is given out on the ear anglais, can by the simple process of referring to the list of players and the use of his eyes connect a certain quality of tone with a certain instrument and a certain player. Thus in the veriest amateur, if he or she be gifted with a good ear and a little curiosity, a personal interest may be de-
veloped which adds not a little to the pleasure of concert-going. Berlioz in his Memoirs gives a most amusing account of his early visits to the opera, in which this personal interest manifested itself in the most acute form. As the performers filed into the orchestra Berlioz used to name each of them to his fellow-pittites, "introducing him with a running com- mentary on his habits and powers." The commentary is as follows :—
" There's Baillot. He does not reserve himself for the ballets like the other violins; he does not consider it a disgrace to play the accompaniments in an opera by Gluck ; he will play a pas- sage on the fourth string presently ; and you will hear it through all the rest of the orchestra. That fat, ruddy fellow yonder is the principal double bass, old Cheni6. He is a bale old fellow, in spite of his age ; a host in himself, and worth four of the others. You may be sure his part will be played as the author wrote it; he does not belong to the school of simplifiers. The conductor ought to keep an eye on Guillou, the principal flute- player, who is just coming in. He takes the strangest liberties with Gluck. For the religious march in Aleeste, for example, the composer has written a low part for the flutes, so as to obtain the special effect of its deep tones. Guillou does not approve of this; he must take the lead; he will be heard; and so what does he do but play his part an octave higher, destroying the author's effect, and turning an ingenious idea into one that is puerile and commonplace."
But even to a less sensitive observer than the author of the Traite d'Instrumentation the orchestral player is often a most interesting figure, whose artistic personality and style reveal themselves in so marked a way that certain familiar pas- sages become inseparably associated with the tones of a particular player—e.g., the present writer always hears the woneerful passages for the first bassoon in the last movements of Beethoven's Violin Concerto and Choral Symphony in the tones of Mr. W. B. Wotton's instrument — and his absence makes itself at once felt. Of course, the size of a modern orchestra renders it impossible that extended recog- nition of this personal element should be habitually made by musical critics, and in the case of certain large groups of instruments the singling out of individual players would be an extremely difficult as well as invidious task. Hitherto, however, orchestral players have run no risk of suffering from an excess of notice. An obbligato accompaniment is occasion- ally noted, but the performance of the many and elaborate solos for the wind instruments which occur in symphonic works is habitually passed over without a word of comment, though the omission is no doubt often made good by a sympathetic and appreciative conductor.'
The denial of the sweets of popularity has probably not been without its wholesome effects on the character of the average orchestral player. Although living in the blaze of publicity, they enjoy a collective reputation and are in no danger of being spoiled by notice. With rare exceptions, they are entirely free from the affectation, the vanity, the jealousy, and the egotism so often observable in solo artists. For example, we know of two celebrated horn players who, though to a certain extent rivals, are the most intimate friends and most loyal allies. Now, when did any one ever hear of two tenors being close allies ? Even the affection of a Damon and Pythias would have failed to stand the stress of such a competition. Then it is remarkable to notice, even when an orchestral player has a solo passage, bow careful he is to avoid undue self-assertion. No modern trombonist would emulate the player who at the first performance of the Lobgesang intro- duced a florid turn into the opening phrase. The tricks of the virtuoso are " taboo " in the orchestra, and the ironical custom at rehearsal of chucking a copper or two at a player who has had a showy passage all to himself, by its implied comparison of the performer with a street performer, acts as an excellent corrective of vanity. The modern orchestral player, again, seldom cultivates any eccentricity of costume or appearance. He dresses just like any other mortal, eschews long hair, and • if he shows a special fondness for keeping his hat on at rehearsal, it must be remembered that the draughtiness of orchestras and places where they play is proverbial. Some of the younger men are inclined to dandyism in their dress, and that prompts one to observe that the average age of a London orchestral player of to-day is decidedly lower than it was twenty, or even ten, years back. It is the age of the young man in music as well as journalism, and no doubt for the interpretation of the emotional music so much in vogue at the moment the mere physical energy of youth, the fougue de vingt ans, is an almost indispensable quality. In regard to musicianship, the standard of the English orchestral players is in most respects very high. They are notorious for their sight-reading, and many stories are told in illustration of their exploits a prima vista. Thus it is said that when M. Paderewski, after com- posing a piece for pianoforte and orchestra, was anxious to hear how it sounded, he hired a first-rate orchestra in Paris, but after two hours the players had not got beyond the first movement. Later on when the same work was put in rehearsal for the Norwich Festival a London band read it straight through. Again, Dr. Richter is reported to have been much struck by the way in which a well-known English clarinet player read off at sight an elaborate cadenza in one of Liszt's Rhapsodies. Many other instances of this faculty might be multiplied, a faculty which no doubt has been strengthened and developed by the spur of neces- sity, for England enjoys an unsatisfactory pm-eminence as the country of the fewest rehearsals. Another ex- cellent point about orchestral players, again, is the real public spirit, in the artistic sense, which they are capable of displaying in the way of mastering instruments which are only required on special occasions,—proficiency on which, moreover, in view of the time and labour entailed in acquiring it, is entirely unremunerative. In other words, the orchestral player is often animated by a genuine enthusiasm for his art, though earning a wage little, if at all, above that of a skilled artisan. For his opportunities of making an income, unless he plays an instrument affected by amateurs, and therefore likely to bring him in a certain amount of teaching, are severely limited, and frequently impose on him the irksome drudgery of playing in theatre orchestras or dance-musie
bands. The present writer will never forget the look of patient anguish on the expressive features of a famous wind instrument player—whom he has heard Dr. Richter describe as a great artist—as he appeared in a theatre band during the perform- ance of a musical comedy of the most ruinously inane and tawdry description. It was a veritable case of a musical Samson condemned to make sport for the Philistines. The trials of the orchestral player are not easily realised by the thoughtless concert-goer, who, if anything goes wrong, takes it for granted that the player is at fault. In which context one may recall that notable act of magnanimity of Dr. Richter, who at a concert in St. James's Hall some years ago, when for a short space conductor and orchestra were at loggerheads, informed the audience at the close that he and not the band was to blame.
Though laudably exempt from the most aggravating eccen- tricities associated with the artistic temperament, the men of the orchestra are not free from their little weaknesses. They are disposed to show perhaps an undue preference for works which are brilliantly and effectively orchestrated, or which give special opportunities of distinction to their own particu- lar instrument. The uncompromising composer who sacrifices beauty of tone to dramatic intensity of expression is some- times ranked by them below the utterer of smooth or sonorous platitudes. They are resentful, on occasion, of the uncon- ventional and the unfamiliar, witness the historic occasion when the Philharmonic orchestra, to Mendelssohn's indigna- tion, burst out laughing at the reiterated triplets in the Finale of Schubert's C major Symphony. And in the case of English players, they are no doubt slightly hampered by the solid and unemotional qualities of the race where the interpre- tation of romantic music is concerned. What Wagner said of the English players in 1855 is still in a measure true of their descendants : us jouent parfaitement, mais ii leur mangue le feu saere. Precision, volume and purity of tone—in these and other excellent qualities they are not lacking, but in passion, abandon, and caprice they are less sensitive to the indications of a conductor than their foreign brethren. Yet in conclusion it must be set down to their credit that though sometimes unsympathetic to a stranger or a young composer unversed in the technique of conducting, they always recog- nise and respect a master of the craft, and will submit cheer- fully to a severe taskmaster if his authority rests on real knowledge, and is tempered by the exhibition of immediate appreciativeness. It may be that our orchestras contain fewer men of such outstanding individuality as the giants of the past, "Old Drag."—the famous double-bass player Dragonetti—and Lindley, Sainton and Lazarus, Crozier and Pratten. There has been, no doubt, a levelling-up in re- gard of efficiency, and this uniformity has not been attained without a certain loss of character. Besides, where the average player is so much younger than formerly, he has hardly had time to develop any peculiarities, amiable or otherwise. But we must not conclude these somewhat discursive remarks on the men of the orchestra without admitting that, though perhaps less interesting specimens of humanity than formerly from the point of view, say, of the novelist or journalist, they are on other grounds far less open to criticism. For example, it is, we believe, extremely unlikely that such a protest could now be made as once fell from the lips of an illustrious foreign conductor in connection with one of his band "With Mr. — I can do no good. It is always quench, quench,
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