f6. ALONG ABOUT THIS TIME A VERY FINE dancer by the name of Angna Enters was planning to give a recital, and she asked me if I would like to hook on with the flute. Sort of a joint recital, as you might say—although, of course, what she had in her mind was that something had to go on while she was changing her costumes. But anyway I was glad of the opportunity because of the unwritten law that you aren't getting anyplace until you give some kind of recital, and all of the critics, including Olin Downes of the New York Times, were scheduled to be present. Now you shouldn't hold grudges and everybody knows it, but still everybodygoes right on holding grudges. The funny thing is that usually thisperson you have hated year after year has no idea you feel that way on account of nine times out of ten the thing he did to you was so slight and unintentional that it made no impression whatever in his mind. But all the time this "terrible affront" was 109 running wild in your system like the devil grass back of the hen house, growing out of all proportion into a ridiculous snarl of a wiry, unreasonable, un-get-at-able, messy, matted mess. You can be cured of this grudge nonsense if you ever get to realize that exactly as you are hating some pretty nice guy who doesn't know or even dream how you feel about him, somebody else is hating you for something you did so long ago you don't even remember it. I was never so dumfounded as the day I got a letter with a Kankakee postmark that started off with a pencil diagram of South Superior Street in Mason City with all the houses labeled. There was the Collins house, then Old Man Birney, then the jog in the street, then the barn that wasmoved up to the sidewalk and made over into a bungalow , then Glanville's, then Malthouse's. Across the street was Brice's corner, then the Hughes girls, Norene and Regina, and then a house with an arrow pointing to it and this remark: "I've been hearing you on the radio, and if you are the Willson who lived in this house, I just want you to know you ruined the only chance I ever had of having a merry Christmas when I was little, and I've hated you for it ever since and always will." I was full of all kinds of things, including righteous indignation, that this man didn't even sign his name and give me a chance to find out what 110 [3.235.75.229] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 13:50 GMT) in the hell was eating him. And then suddenly it hit me. Was I living in a glass house! And so here I go dumping all my grudges into oblivion, including my special, gilt-edged, fourstar , twenty-year-old hate against Olin Downes, music critic, and thank you, Kankakee! I will quote Mr. Downes's review of that recital for the last time, and I will then unbrand it from my brain and forgive and forget, so help me: Miss Enters is perhaps the greatest mime of our day. As for the rest of the evening, its items were uniformly vapid. I hope my nobility and generosity in taking leave of this grudge are not entirely based upon the fact that flute playing isn't so important to me any more on account of I'm more interested in composing music. Richard Wagner was allergic to wool socks. This is the only thing I have in common with Mr. Wagner so far—although I'm still trying to write something by way of music that might have a chance of lasting longer than I do. Believing that nothing is impossible, I might accomplish this yet; and how did I arrive at this knowledge that nothing is impossible? I'll tell you. Ill Ever hear of Sammy Gardner? Well, you might say he was greater than Heifetz and Brahms put together. I mean Sammy was a skinny little kid like Heifetz was once, and they both played the fiddle. However, Heifetz was playing better fiddle than anybody in the world before he was old enough to blow his own nose. You couldn't have held back that flood of genius any more than you could...