The bourgeoisie had stolen art from the people, but it did not even wish to support that stolen art. Performers are bought in America, and big money is paid for them. The bored rich men have had their fill of the Chaliapins, Heifetzes, Horowitzes, Rachmaninoffs, Stravinskys, Giglis, and Totti del Montes. It is not at all difficult for a millionaire to pay ten dollars for a ticket. But as for opera or a symphonic orchestra — that, you see, is too expensive. Those forms of art in all the world demand donations. The state does not give money for it. Well-known American charity remains. The benefactors keep up in America only three opera houses, and of those only the New York Metropolitan Opera works regularly a whole three months a year. When we remarked that in Moscow there are four opera houses which work the year around, except for an interval of three months, Americans wondered politely, but in the depths of their hearts they did not believe us.
A few years ago the Maecenases got a public slap in the face from the great director Toscanini, who at that time conducted the New York Philharmonic. The affairs of the Philharmonic were in a bad way. There was no money. The Maecenases were preoccupied with their businesses and gave no thought to the fate of clarinets, cellos, and bass viols. Finally came the moment when the Philharmonic had to close its doors. That coincided with the seventieth birthday of Arturo Toscanini. That great musician found a way out. He did not turn to the meat and copper kings for money. He turned to the people. After a radio concert he asked every radio listener to send a dollar in exchange for a photograph which Toscanini would autograph. And Toscanini was rewarded for his long and difficult life. The Philharmonic received the necessary means, received it from people who did not have the money to buy tickets to a theatre and to see the living Toscanini. It is said that the majority of these people were poor Italian immigrants.
In the life of Toscanini was a small, but interesting, occurrence:
When he was a director of La Scala, in Milan, a competition was announced for the best opera. Toscanini was a member of the jury. A certain quite untalented composer, before presenting his manuscript, spent a long time flattering the famous musician and paying court to him in every way. He asked that his opera be submitted separately to Toscanini for the latter's opinion. That opinion was unfavourable. The opera was rejected. Ten years passed, and the talentless composer again met Toscanini, this time in New York.
"Well, maestro, it is a matter of the past," the composer said to him, "but I should like to know why you then rejected my opera."
"I didn't like it," replied Toscanini.
"But I am sure, maestro, that you never even read it. If you had read it, you could not have failed liking it."
"Don't talk nonsense," replied Toscanini, "I remember your manuscript perfectly. It's no good. Listen to this!" He sat down at the grand piano and played from memory several passages from the dead opera which he had rejected ten years before. "No, it's no good," he kept saying as he played. "It's beneath all criticism!"
And then came the evening when we went to a Kreisler concert after carelessly leaving our automobile in front of the hotel. A cold wind blew from the lake. We were quite chilled, although we had to go only a short distance. We were glad that we had bought our tickets ahead of time.
The foyer was quite empty. In fact, at first we thought that we were late, and that the concert had already begun. In the hall itself there were few people, not more than half the hall being occupied.
"The Chicagoans certainly like to come late," we decided.
But it was unfair of us and premature to accuse Chicagoans. of unpunctuality, for they really are a punctual people. They did not come late. They simply did not come at all. The concert began and ended in a half-empty hall.
On the stage stood an elderly man in a broad cutaway, a man with quite a large stomach on which dangled a watch chain with fobs. There he stood, his legs apart, holding on to his violin with an irate chin. That was Kreisler, the greatest violinist in the world. The violin is a precarious instrument. One cannot play on it passably well or merely well, as on a piano. Mediocre violin playing is frightful, while good violin playing is mediocre and scarcely tolerable. The violin must be played remarkably well. Only then can the performance afford any pleasure. Kreisler played with the utmost perfection. He played subtly, poetically, and wisely. In Moscow he would have received an ovation of half an hour after such a concert. It would have been necessary to take away the piano and to put out all the lights in order to stop the ovation. But here, as in New York, his playing called forth no rapture from the public. They applauded Kreisler, but one did not feel gratitude in their applause. The public seemed to be saying to the violinist: "Yes, you know how to play the violin. You have brought your art to perfection. But, after all, art is not such a very important thing. Is it worth while to get excited about it?" Kreisler evidently wanted to stir the public up a bit. It would have been better if he had not done it. He turned to pieces which were increasingly banal—pretty little waltzes and other light pieces—the productions of low taste. He finally attained his objective, for the public came to life and demanded encores. It was the great humiliation of a great artist who had begged for charity.
We came out on Michigan Avenue with a heavy heart.
"There, there, gentlemen," Mr. Adams told us. "You demand too much from America. A score of years ago something very interesting happened to me. You will find it interesting to hear this. The first time Wagner's Parsifal was presented in New York I went, of course. I love Wagner very much. I took my place in the seventh row and prepared to listen. Beside me sat a large red-haired gentleman. Five minutes after the beginning of the performance I noticed that the red-haired gentleman was asleep. That would not have been so terrible if in his sleep he had not leaned on my shoulder and emitted a quite unpleasant snore. I wakened him. But a minute later he was again asleep, all the time leaning his head on my shoulder, as if it were a pillow. Gentlemen, I am not a mean man, but I could not endure this. With all my strength I shoved my elbow into the red-headed gentleman's side. He awakened and stared at me for a long time with an uncomprehending look. Then I saw suffering on his face. `I beg your pardon, sir,' he said,' but I am a very unhappy man. I came from San Francisco to New York for two days only, and I have many things to attend to. But in San Francisco I have a wife, who is a German. You know, sir, the Germans are crazy people; they are mad about music. My wife is no exception. When I was leaving, she said, "James, give me your word that you will go to the first performance of Parsifal. What a treat to be at the first performance of Parsifal! Since I cannot go, at least you must go. You must do it for me. Give me your word of honour." I gave her my word, and we business people know how to keep our word. And so, I am here, sir!' I advised him to go back to the hotel, since he had already kept his word and there was no danger that he would become a dishonest person, and he immediately ran away after warmly pressing my hand. You know, I liked that red-headed gentleman. You must not judge Americans too harshly. They are an honest people. They deserve the utmost respect."
While listening to Mr. Adams's tale we walked up to the hotel, and here to our great horror we did not find our automobile. Our sedately mouse-coloured car had disappeared. Mrs. Adams looked in her bag and did not find the key. The most terrible thing that could have happened to anyone on the road had happened to us. The automobile had disappeared, key, licence, and all.