s
attainments, but it is necessary that the attainments should be generally
recognized first. It was admirable in Stephenson to have said (as I am
sure he did), when they congratulated him on his first steam-engine,
"Tut-tut, it's nothing"; but he could only say this so long as the others
were in a position to offer the congratulations. In order to place you in
that position I must let you know how extraordinarily well I played the
pianola. I brought to my interpretation of different Ops an _elan_, a
_verve_, a _je ne sais quoi_--and several other French words--which were
the astonishment of all who listened to me. But chiefly I was famous for
my playing of one piece: "The Charge of the Uhlans," by Karl Bohm. Others
may have seen Venice by moonlight, or heard the Vicar's daughter recite
"Little Jim," but the favoured few who have been present when Bohm and I
were collaborating are the ones who have really lived. Indeed, even the
coldest professional critic would have spoken of it as "a noteworthy
rendition."

"The Charge of the Uhlans." If you came to see me, you had to hear it. As
arranged for the pianola, it was marked to be played throughout at a
lightning pace and with the loudest pedal on. So one would play it if one
wished to annoy the man in the flat below; but a true musician has, I
take it, a higher aim. I disregarded the "FF.'s" and the other sign-posts
on the way, and gave it my own interpretation. As played by me, "The
Charge of the Uhlans" became a whole battle scene. Indeed, it was
necessary, before I began, that I should turn to my audience and describe
the scene to them--in the manner, but not in the words, of a Queen's Hall
programme:--

"Er--first of all you hear the cavalry galloping past, and then there's a
short hymn before action while they form up, and then conies the charge,
and then there's a slow bit while they--er--pick up the wounded, and then
they trot slowly back again. And if you listen carefully to the last bit
you'll actually hear the horses limping."

Something like that I would say; and it might happen that an insufferable
guest (who never got asked again) would object that the hymn part was
unusual in real warfare.

"They sang it in this piece, anyhow," I would say stiffly, and turn my
back on him and begin.

But the war put a stop to music, as to many other things. For years the
pianola was not played by either of us. We had other things to do. And in
our case, curiously enough