BEN DULLARD KRUPP. A woman? From Budapest? On a Thimble piano? Starting in with Debussy? And you ask if she’ll be good! How could she be? DONALD WORCESTER. I was reading the other day—— BEN DULLARD KRUPP. All she plays is trash, of one kind or another. Debussy never does anything but move up and down the whole-tone scale; no melody, no counterpoint, no music at all. And take the Tchaikowsky thing, for instance. Everybody knows that Tchaikowsky always carried a whip in one hand and a gun in the other, and when he wasn’t using one, it was the other. It’s proverbial, and makes such a handy remark when thinking would take too long. And his piano-style: he simply hasn’t got any; it’s pathetic. I see you don’t get my joke on the sixth symphony—the Pathetique. I say, America won’t stand for that sort of thing. Some kindly person should have informed this Madame Frizza Bonjoline before she made a complete fool of herself. CARBON HATCHETT. She hasn’t played yet, and maybe it won’t be so bad after all. DONALD WORCESTER. A friend of mine tells me that Mr. Debussy is one of the greatest living melodists. BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Blgh-h! No further imbecility is displayed for the time being. Soon the party breaks up, and a natural modesty prevents the critics from seeing each other again until after the piano recital by Madame Frizza Bonjoline, an artist who is but slightly known in the United States, but one who has achieved recognition throughout Europe, South America, and Australia. She has just given an unusual program, which she could not close with less than seven encores. While the five critics wait outside the green-room, they hold a restrained conversation. HATCHETT TO KRUPP. It’s good to have you among us again, Krupp. Although I do have a terrible time steering my thoughts through the mazes of the English language I feel like the only live one left, since the Trib dropped you. The town needs you, and I’m glad you have an opportunity again to mould public opinion. We need more strong-minded men like you. KRUPP (fiercely). I know it, but the cattle don’t recognize good criticism when they see it. HATCHETT TO KRUPP. How did the Madame strike you? Plenty of emotion, I thought. KRUPP (to all). Impossible program—good God!—did you ever hear such a medley? And she hasn’t the strength of a kitten. HATCHETT TO KRUPP. Of course, she didn’t seem quite vital enough, but that may have been because of her choice of numbers. They were somewhat “outre.” KRUPP (sourly). Altogether too girlish, I say. EDWARD MORLESS. Splendid personality, but a rotten technic, don’t you think? DONALD WORCESTER. As near as I can tell, she wears marvelous silk hose. They were the most striking thing about the whole concert. BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Blgh-ggh-h! XILEF BOWOWSKI. I suppose then, Mr. Worcester, one doesn’t require any ears to get the good or bad out of a concert—only eyes.