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5 Rosenthaliana The Musical Courier, November 6, 1901 Leonard Liebling Probably nowhere is the deadening inactivity of the dog days felt more keenly than in the of¤ces of a large daily newspaper. At least, so young Barthmann had just said, sitting at his desk in the reporters’ room of the Berlin Mittagblatt and tapping his nose rhythmically with a loose wrist and a long lead pencil. “A nice professionfor amanof ambition,Imustsay,”hecontinued to complain; “nothing but dog bites, sunstrokes, and accidental drownings to write about.” “What did you expect to do when you came here?”queried grizzled old Boetticher , laying down his pen and looking quizzically at his younger colleague. “Interviewing,” replied Barthmann, enthusiastically; “the interviewing of great personages. That’s where I could show my real powers. Studying a man’s face and character, divining the hidden meanings in his answers; matching my wits against his; questioning, probing, counter-questioning, dodging, fencing, sparring, and wading forth from the encounter with the truth triumphant, the armor of reserve, the bulwark of deceit, the breastwork of prevarication shattered and banged to bits, the naked facts standing forth—” “Clothe those facts at once and come in here, Barthmann,” suddenly spoke the managing editor, appearing in the doorway of his private room. Sheepishly Barthmann followed him. “I happened to hear something of what you said,”began the managing editor. “Those are admirable sentiments for a young newspaper man. You should succeed with such principles. You complained of a lack of opportunity. I shall give you a chance. You’ve done some good musical articles for us. Moriz Rosenthal, the pianist, is in town; at the Reichshof Hotel. Do you think you could get an interesting review for us; draw out some new facts?” “I’ll try, sir.” “Find out what he thinks of his colleagues. Get his opinions on modern men and things in music. He is keen and caustic and spares no one. Lead him on to the bitterest outbreaks against everybody and everything. That will make some spicy reading in the Mittagblatt.” “Yes, sir,” said Barthmann, and left the room. Like a true reporter, he went to work at his assignment the moment he received it. Already he was preparing in his mind some of the shrewd questions that would force important musical truths from the caustic Rosenthal. “It’s awfully easy,” re®ected Barthmann as he neared the Hotel Reichshof; “like all great artists, Rosenthal will be only too glad to talk. In my hands he’ll be like wax. I’ll mold him as I please.” “Herr Rosenthal is dining on the terrace,” announced the stately portier. Barthmann sent a card advertising himself as the Mittagblatt’s representative. Some moments later our young journalist, with his most engaging smile, faced his unsuspecting victim, who, seated before an elegantly appointed table, seemed absorbed in the X sharps and Y ®ats stirred up by the strenuous performance of Vörös Miska and his celebrated band. “An interview for the readers of the Mittagblatt?” asked Rosenthal, good naturedly. “Take dinner with me. Waiter, another cover. Double the order I gave you. And get that dinner here with the speed of a hunted tortoise. If you do, I’ll include you in my evening prayer—or give you a tip, whichever you prefer. Now I’m at your service, Herr Barthmann.” “Um-ah, oh, yes,”hastened the young man, asking his last question ¤rst. “Do you think a true artist should be bound by tradition? Should he not have an opinion of his own?” “Some have several,suitabletovariousclimesandtimes,” answered Rosenthal. “Should one practice scales?” “One should not practice scales—one should play them perfectly.” “Whom do you consider a great modern composer?” “Strauss.” “Johann or Richard Strauss?” “Why be particular about such a tri®ing detail as a Christian name? Let us hold to the main questions.” “What do you think of ‘Till Eulenspiegel’?” “A most valuable book for young and old. A pure source of innocent delight, of healthful merriment.” “Well, then, what do you think of the Fledermaus? (The Bat.)” “A very unpleasant animal, commonly supposed to have predilections for one’s hair.” “Should pianists compose?” “A thousand times one resolves never to write down a musical idea, then one happens to hear a pretty melody somewhere, and instantly one composes it.” “What do you think of some of our younger artists—Hofmann, Kreisler, Hambourg, for instance?”1 “I consider Johannes Kreisler one of the happiest delineations of...

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