# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1632/Drawing-Room Music

From The Saturday Review.
DRAWING-ROOM MUSIC.
The exigencies of society, which demand that when people are assembled together for the space of a few hours in the relation of host and guest they must keep up a show of being interested or amused, are mercifully supported by the existence of music. The English have not, as a rule, the gift of conversation which at a French party makes all extraneous or imported forms of amusement unnecessary; one will hardly ever find in an English drawing-room that kind of pleasant river of talk, filled by auxiliary streams that flow into it without disturbing its bright current, which is a feature of French society. The state of conversation at an English assembly for social purposes might rather be said to resemble a collection of stagnant pools, whose waters require some such violent means as the throwing of a stone to rouse their surface into a semblance of activity. And music is the stone which comes most readily to hand. It is curious that an art should be turned to a use entirely opposed to its original object; that, being designed to make people listen, it should be employed to make them talk; but undoubtedly music is constantly relied upon as an instrument for this effect, and generally with success. As the person chosen to break the spell of silence frequently suffers from shyness or nervousness, an optimist might imagine that the general chatter which immediately drowns his or her efforts was caused by kindness of heart, and was intended to save the suffering caused by the performer's consciousness of becoming an object of attention. But as the same result follows when the performer is neither nervous nor shy, and is worth hearing, it must be supposed that the people who burst into talk like machines set working by the keys of the piano are moved by the mere sympathy with noise which leads parrots to chatter and whistle under the same circumstances. When the person selected to awaken the slumbering faculties of a company in this way has a real love for the art in which he dabbles, the suffering endured by him must be intense, and it is attended by a host of minor torments. For instance, he may be asked to sing, and be unable to play his own accompaniment. A volunteer, generally a lady, is found who "will do her best, but really plays so badly unless she knows the music well." That she does know it well is seldom the case, but the singer, for fear of seeming ungracious or self-important, is obliged to accept the proffered service thankfully. It may be that the accompanist is afflicted with a nervousness equal to or greater than his own, and, perceiving that he is nervous, straightway assimilates his terror, and so gives back a fresh impulse of agitation to him. In this case, although the affair has some resemblance to the blind leading the blind, the two people most interested in it have at least the comfort of being fellow-sufferers, and may find consolation in comparing notes upon their feelings and joining in contempt for those who have no knowledge of their woes or appreciation of their efforts. But it may be that the accompanist is not nervous, but is filled with a sense of duty, admirable in itself but disastrous in its consequences, which leads her to play straight through the music before her as though it were an exercise for the piano, without halting a moment in her career or otherwise taking note of the singer's existence. In ​this case there is no comfort or escape for him; his only resource is to accept the reversed order of things suggested, to subordinate himself to the needs of the moment, and accompany the piano instead of being accompanied by it. Or, again, although not nervous himself, he may become the cause of nervousness in others; the player who accompanies him maybe forced into that position by knowing that she is the only person with any qualification for it, however small. She may play each note with a dread that the next will be wrong, which in course of time will overmaster her, turning her head into a phantasmagoria where notes shift with endless confusion, and her fingers into things of a woollen consistency without force or feeling. If the singer manages to maintain his presence of mind under these trying circumstances, he may, by a rapid dexterity, omit several bars and bring the song to a conclusion without the catastrophe of a breakdown. But in any case he will be overwhelmed with remorse for the suffering which he has caused to an innocent being who was happy before he became the means of throwing a gloom over her evening.
These are some of the misfortunes to which amateurs are liable. They may, however, find comfort for the want of understanding among their audiences in an incident which may be taken as typical. A professional singer who had retired into domestic life appeared as a private guest at a party, and sang a famous piece of Gluck's with a force and precision which only the best professional singers attain. She was listened to with a cold compassion and kind condescension by the larger portion of the society, amongst whom one who held himself to be a fine musical critic observed, "Very kind of her, poor thing! But she cannot touch that music." Then came forward a singer of great renown, who had been unnoticed in the crowd, and pressing forward to the piano, enthusiastically seized the hands of the performer and exclaimed, "Do not tell me that you are an amateur. I recognize in you a great — a sister artist."
For want of judgment, however, on the part of those who listen to music in drawing-rooms, considerable excuse may be found in the kind of music which they are often condemed to hear. Among the many rare gifts which seem to be nowadays considered common to the greater part of the world that of musical excellence is not omitted. The same folly which induces misguided persons to imagine that they can string together a readable novel without any knowledge of character or grammar, and act a difficult part with no understanding of stage requirements, has led them to say with Bottom, "I have a reasonable good ear in music; let us have the tongs and the bones." For the many attempts at playing by those who have no touch, and at singing by those who have no ear, the system of education which teaches children a certain set of things without any reference to their individual capacity for them is in great measure responsible. But the worst specimens of musical incompetency which may be heard in drawing-rooms are due to the want of perception and the vanity of those who exhibit the specimens. There are many men and women who might sing or play agreeably if they would confine themselves to things within their powers; but vaulting ambition carries them pell-mell into the dangers of difficult music which can only be encountered successfully after years of study and practice, and makes of the struggles which, it is to be hoped, are more painful to their hearers than themselves, a terrible warning. When one has been present at one or two performances of this kind, one can understand the feelings of a professor of music who was gifted with a very tender conscience besides a great talent, and, being asked the reason of an unusual fit of gloom, replied, "Well, I am just thinking whether I ought to go on teaching these amateurs. They come and learn, but they understand nothing; and they mostly have voices like little cats."
No less terrible than the amateur who has no talent for music is he who has a great deal of talent and so much enthusiasm that his mind is incapable of taking thought for anything else. If, having some love for music yourself, you are unfortunate enough to encounter a fanatic of this description, and unsuspectingly reveal that you have some sympathy with his hard-ridden hobby, your doom is sealed. Having caught a congenial spirit, he will never, so long as he can avoid it, let go his grasp. He will discourse to you for hours upon the third manner of Beethoven and the dash exhibited by Verdi in his terzetti. His own life is written upon music-paper, his minutes are counted by crotchets and quavers, and he is unable to perceive that yours can possibly have any other interests. ​He will stop you in the middle of a crowded room through which you are making your way with great difficulty and danger to a particular object, and ask if you have heard that lovely thing which has just come out, which he proceeds to imitate as well as he can under his breath, with an indication of the peculiarly fine effect of the drum in the twenty-ninth bar. If you speak of the Agricultural Holdings Bill, he is by a singular feat of memory reminded of the Pastoral Symphony, and launches at once into a discussion of its beauties, with practical illustrations. If you rashly quote a line of poetry, he begs you to listen to a little setting of his own of some of the poet's words. If, in despair, his victim attempts to make a diversion to any political question of the day, his talk glides with surprising swiftness from Bismarck to Wagner, the king of Bavaria, and the theatre at Bayreuth. His mission would seem to be to make the very name of the art which he adores odious to all who come under his influence. Fortunately it is possible to meet with musical enthusiasts who have some human feelings, such, for instance, as Mr. Trillo in Peacock's "Crotchet Castle." Lady Clarinda Bossnowl, in that brilliant fiction, describing the company at dinner to Captain Fitzchrome, says: — "Hush! Here is music to soothe your troubled spirit. Next on this side sits the dilettante composer Mr. Trillo; they say his name was O'Trill, and he has taken the O from the beginning and put it at the end. I do not know how this may be. He plays well on the violoncello, and better on the piano; sings agreeably; has a talent at verse-making, and improvises a song with some felicity. He is very agreeable company in the evening with his instruments and music-books." People with such exceptional gifts as Mr. Trillo are, however, rare; were there more of them there would be less direct and indirect suffering caused by the cultivation, or rather want of cultivation, of music which seems to spread with increasing power. Reference to Peacock reminds one that in another of his books, "Headlong Hall," there is a curious seting forth of the theory of music which has lately been put forward as something entirely novel. There Mr. Mac Laurel concludes a dissertation upon music and poetry in these words: — "As gude music will be mair pooerfu' by itsel' than wi' bad poetry, sae will gude poetry than wi' bad music; but when ye put gude music an' gude poetry thegither, ye produce the loveliest compound o' sentimental harmony that can possibly find its way through the lug to the saul." This lovely compound of good music and good poetry has been heard in Wagner's opera this season, which is a good thing. Before next season it is likely that various selections from that opera will be heard in drawing-rooms, which may be not so good. Drawing-room music, as a rule, may be said to be on a par with drawing-room plays; that is, it is sometimes good, sometimes bad, and often indifferent.