My Lady's Bower.

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 1 August 1904, Page 387

My Lady's Bower.

By Alma

Lady readers are invited to discuss current topics in these pages, suggest subjects for discussion, and ■also to contribute photographic studies on any subject of interest. Contributions should be addressed : " Editor My Lady's Bower, New Zealand Illustrated Magazine," and should arrive early in the month. In all cases where stamps are enclosed for the purpose photos will be returned.

f'^jggAS it ever struck you that fsi|| with the education of the JjySii public to good music the musician will become rare r Now, that may seem very paradoxical, but only at first reading. For what I mean is that the present great number of people who play or sing badly will tend to decrease. We have all along called anyone who performs, a musician. Only for

lack of a better term. ''Amateur " is so general, and in music particularly, gives a distinctly erroneous impression. For is not an amateur a lover ? And how many of those who pound away each day, through long, weary years, at scales and exercises, rewarded occasionally with " Silvery Waves/' or "Golden Breezes/' or " Singing Rivers/' or something equally ridiculous, are

lovers of the labour which is to them anything but art, with or without a capital ? I remember, as a child, being: one of five, all drilled in music. Among us were a piano, a violin, a flute, and a clarionet ; and we rose at six, and took the family piano in turn. Four of us had to get in a half-hour each before breakfast. One unfortunate had to practise his flute half-hour as well, and I think the violinist spent a cold and unprofitable hour. We pleased ourselves as

to what we practised and how. As long as there was continuous sound, it was well. One lazy brother used to^ spend at least ten minutes of his thirty coming out frequently to see if time was up. For my part, an unlearnt lesson or an enticing storybook stood opposite my eyes, and my fingers practised. lam afraid the violinist looked out of his window and bowed vigorously or otherwise, according to view. I am sure now that we should all have been better chopping wood, or better still, sleeping.

Then there was a boarding-school where twenty girls divided betweea them eight pianos during six and seven a.m. The computation of the divisions of time allowing always that no one had the same piano two days running, used to give the poor governess a fearful headache, and the supervision, proved to be necessary, was an insurmountable barrier to peace. So it is. Parents spend money on pianos, and a small income upon tuition for their children — and as-

for the worry of the practice — it's really inconceivable to those who have not undertaken the responsibility of it. Well, I began by speaking of public music, which may be one good result of all this drilling. If it is, then I am glad to hear of some good phoenix from the ashes. Whatever its cause, it is having the effect of driving the music-spoiler out of the -field. Not entirely : for the fever has not yet run its course. But it makes him play what he doesin correct time, even if it does not

always succeed in making him singin tune. By the frequent hearing of good music, more critics have sprung into being ; and many of them are doing a service by what may seem unkind criticism. And again, instead of giving their pupils pretty sounding " tunes/' modem teachers instil the theory, which is nearly as difficult to some would-be musicians as is mathematics. Then there's harmony, and as a relief from exercises, now swollen to an enormous bulk, learners get apparently tuneless compositions by foreign composers, masters of the classic, and with no better titles than Impromptu, Etude, Symphony. Somehow, I flo not think too many of the growing generation

will care to extend their knowledge of this, to all but lovers, uninteresting curriculum. So that there is hope for the next generation. Fancy, what a time we, as grandmothers, will have— no scales, no Czerny's, no fantasies, no morceaux. Music by that time will be reduced to the theory of silence. A child — no ! a lover — will be able to practise in bed, in theory, of course. And at the most, only one of each household will be courageous enough to attempt even that. Pianos will be relegated to the attics or the auction mart — unsaleable relics. And the other instruments of harmony— but if Igo any further in this direction, you will think me as bad as the average musician.