Music of the Month

My Dear Yvonne — The debut of Max Rosen with the Philharmonic caused something of a disappointment, for we had been led to believe from the press, for several weeks before his arrival, that he was by far the greatest of all the violinists from the studio of Leopold Auer. Granting that idea for our expecting too much, Max Rosen’s position was a very difficult one, for we have all been thrilled so recently by the magnificent playing of Jascha Heifetz, his brilliant contemporary, and one couldn’t refrain from comparing these two youths. In the case of Heifetz, one thinks of him as amongst the few great violinists; whereas Max Rosen strikes one as an extraordinarily clever violinist in view of his seventeen summers, and that doubtless within the next four or five years he will develop into a very fine artist. The boy is undoubtedly very gifted, but his intonation is faulty at times and his bowing, in several instances, showed roughness. Like most of the Auer stars, his tone is beautiful, small but of a very lovely quality, and his left hand is facile. But one feels that it would have been wiser to postpone his debut for another year. He possesses a quiet, simple dignity of bearing — and as the son of an East Side barber, a small boy in rags when his talent was first discovered, sent to Europe by the late Mr. De Coppet to study, he cuts a romantic figure — and his career will be followed with much interest.

Ossip Gabrilowitsch gave a delightful program of Schuman and Chopin at the Aeolian on Saturday, and never has this delightful Russian pianist been in better form. His magnetism even extended to the vestibule of the 43d street entrance where women simply jostled each other about in an alarming fashion in their anxiety to obtain tickets. The result not being unlike Petticoat lane, London, on a Sunday morning; or Paddy’s market, Sydney, on Saturday. “Oh, do let’s hurry,” remarked a blonde of very uncertain age to her brunette friend, “I want to be as near him as possible. He’s the only pianist who ever gives me a real thrill. Oh! mon Dieu! such shivers down my spine when he plays Chopin; I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, my dear, I can’t hold my knitting needles when he plays. And then he looks so much like a character from Dickens — can’t think which one, my dear — but I’ve decided to read Dickens again and find out. Oh, isn’t it just the greatest shame I can’t ask his father-in-law, Mark Twain, I’m sure he’d have known.” And one felt sorry, indeed, that the worthy Mark Twain were not in the office; for he certainly would have been ready with some of his best repartee.

Hats off to Walter Damrosch! His name should go down in history not only for his musical work; he has stopped women from knitting at the Symphony concerts, and we one and all go on our hands and knees in gratitude to him. Your


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