orchestras, he had become, because of his popular, progressive innovations in policy and repertoire, one of the most beloved and respected men in the musical history of the country.
“Something more? ” said Professor Thomas, stressing his mock surprise with a sickly smile. He loathed strange jargon. “Don’t tell me there’s anything more , Ralph, than being a hipster!”
“That’s right,” said the younger George Drew eagerly, “how could anything be more hip than a hipster?” He loved it. “ En tout cas, not semantically.” He seemed to repress a spasm of delight, as though the prospect of sprightly argument could give him goose-pimples.
Dr. Warner allowed his own gaze to grow sober and formulative, staring down at the drink in his hand.
“Yes,” he said evenly, “you might say that a junky is something more than a hipster.”
Professor Thomas snorted politely. “Good Lord, from where on earth did they dig up that term?”
“From its not too earthy grave in Hong Kong harbor, I dare say,” said George Drew coolly, finishing off his drink with a small effeminate toss of his head.
“Drugs again, I’m afraid, Tom,” put in Dr. Warner, often their genial moderator. “Opiates. Heroin this time.”
At home with every idiom, Dr. Warner gave himself as wholly to Alban Berg as he did to Tschaikovsky, as devotedly to Tanglewood as to the Juilliard String Quartet; and already, at fifty-five, he had been frequently called a “grand old man of music,” and again, in other contexts, perhaps because his scope naturally tended at some points toward erudition, a “musician’s musician.”
Now more and more of his time was given over to writing. His work to date consisted of well-received one-volume studies of Brahms, Mozart and Schubert; hundred-page sections on Bach, Beethoven and Wagner; chapters on almost everyone from Palestrina to Schonberg; and a definitive little brochure on Bartók. Dr. Warner’s writing bristled with information and tight parallels, in a style pleasantly fluid, sprinkled with humor, penetrating insights and anecdotes which lacked neither warmth nor sophistication.
Before the war, and since, he had toured Europe regularly and had guest-conducted every major orchestra from Blackpool to Copenhagen. He was mentioned with frequency and respect in the gossip sections of the weekly news-periodicals.
But now he had gone into hiding, or so it must have seemed to his biographers, though they knew in truth that he was away, working on his book. It was by no means the Doctor’s only project at hand, though it was perhaps his most ambitious. Musicologists, critics, teachers in the colleges and academies, art-appreciation groups, cultured people everywhere looked forward to its release—a book which was to treat “the whole of Western Music, its origin and development to the present day,” again touted by the publishers as being definitive. And while this claim was absurd, that the book would have certain value there were no doubts, because Dr. Warner, besides bringing to bear “the breadth of a versatile genius welded to almost unprecedented vitality and an all-embracing devotion to music,” was known, in this world of music at least, to be relatively fair, or impartial.
“Heroin,” said George Drew, pouring himself another. “Treacherous, treacherous.”
“Amazing prevalence among them,” joined Professor Thomas, unimpressed. “ Simply amazing.”
“Prevalent, Tom? Or standard?” asked Dr. Warner with a show of seriousness. “I’m really beginning to wonder.”
“God knows!” wailed the Professor unexpectedly, raising his hands. “The whole thing is beyond me. In the first place, how you propose to—to get next to those people is more than I can see.” There was heat and resentment in his voice, and it was only after a moment’s pause that he could reassert a detached and amiable interest in the subject. “For my money, I think I’d stick, primarily at least, to
“Something more? ” said Professor Thomas, stressing his mock surprise with a sickly smile. He loathed strange jargon. “Don’t tell me there’s anything more , Ralph, than being a hipster!”
“That’s right,” said the younger George Drew eagerly, “how could anything be more hip than a hipster?” He loved it. “ En tout cas, not semantically.” He seemed to repress a spasm of delight, as though the prospect of sprightly argument could give him goose-pimples.
Dr. Warner allowed his own gaze to grow sober and formulative, staring down at the drink in his hand.
“Yes,” he said evenly, “you might say that a junky is something more than a hipster.”
Professor Thomas snorted politely. “Good Lord, from where on earth did they dig up that term?”
“From its not too earthy grave in Hong Kong harbor, I dare say,” said George Drew coolly, finishing off his drink with a small effeminate toss of his head.
“Drugs again, I’m afraid, Tom,” put in Dr. Warner, often their genial moderator. “Opiates. Heroin this time.”
At home with every idiom, Dr. Warner gave himself as wholly to Alban Berg as he did to Tschaikovsky, as devotedly to Tanglewood as to the Juilliard String Quartet; and already, at fifty-five, he had been frequently called a “grand old man of music,” and again, in other contexts, perhaps because his scope naturally tended at some points toward erudition, a “musician’s musician.”
Now more and more of his time was given over to writing. His work to date consisted of well-received one-volume studies of Brahms, Mozart and Schubert; hundred-page sections on Bach, Beethoven and Wagner; chapters on almost everyone from Palestrina to Schonberg; and a definitive little brochure on Bartók. Dr. Warner’s writing bristled with information and tight parallels, in a style pleasantly fluid, sprinkled with humor, penetrating insights and anecdotes which lacked neither warmth nor sophistication.
Before the war, and since, he had toured Europe regularly and had guest-conducted every major orchestra from Blackpool to Copenhagen. He was mentioned with frequency and respect in the gossip sections of the weekly news-periodicals.
But now he had gone into hiding, or so it must have seemed to his biographers, though they knew in truth that he was away, working on his book. It was by no means the Doctor’s only project at hand, though it was perhaps his most ambitious. Musicologists, critics, teachers in the colleges and academies, art-appreciation groups, cultured people everywhere looked forward to its release—a book which was to treat “the whole of Western Music, its origin and development to the present day,” again touted by the publishers as being definitive. And while this claim was absurd, that the book would have certain value there were no doubts, because Dr. Warner, besides bringing to bear “the breadth of a versatile genius welded to almost unprecedented vitality and an all-embracing devotion to music,” was known, in this world of music at least, to be relatively fair, or impartial.
“Heroin,” said George Drew, pouring himself another. “Treacherous, treacherous.”
“Amazing prevalence among them,” joined Professor Thomas, unimpressed. “ Simply amazing.”
“Prevalent, Tom? Or standard?” asked Dr. Warner with a show of seriousness. “I’m really beginning to wonder.”
“God knows!” wailed the Professor unexpectedly, raising his hands. “The whole thing is beyond me. In the first place, how you propose to—to get next to those people is more than I can see.” There was heat and resentment in his voice, and it was only after a moment’s pause that he could reassert a detached and amiable interest in the subject. “For my money, I think I’d stick, primarily at least, to
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