Upper Chateaugay Lake, N.Y., Tuesday, August 1916.
This week the lake lies as still as a pewter plate, stirred only when a puff from the north runs down the long reach and sets the birches whispering like women at a quilting. The mornings are crisp enough to make a man pull his coat close, yet the afternoons keep a pleasant warmth, and the gardens take hold bravely. Haying is nearly done on the high fields, and the late potatoes flourish. Along the shore there’s a steady traffic of boats and visitors—neighborly enough to make this quiet point feel remembered by the world.
Among our music friends, a lively debate has risen. Though it’s neither sickness nor wedding, it has set more tongues wagging than a new buggy. Certain good folk—many with calloused hands to prove their creed—insist that no man deserves to be called a musician unless he has paid for the privilege in sweat. If he has not “practiced till he bled,” as the phrase now goes, his tune, they say, is no better than a painted apple. To them, music’s worth is earned through labor of fingers and lungs, the right to be heard fenced in like a guarded pasture. It is a stern doctrine, preached as though art were a tax paid only by blistered hands.
Now comes into the world a curious contrivance—spoken of by some as a labor-saving friend, by others as a mischievous cheat. Some call it “artificial,” some “mechanical,” as though a steam thresher had wandered into the choir. The quarrel is not about the sound, but about how it’s made. “If a man can jot down a few directions,” say the critics, “and have a machine fetch him a tune, then he hasn’t made it. He merely sent a hired hand to split wood and came back claiming the work.” Others, more indignant still, cry that this “outsources humanity”—a grand way of saying someone else has done his heart’s labor for him.
We have heard such talk before. When a fellow once brought a quick little saxello to a camp meeting, the old violin men felt their bows turn to lead. They said it was too easy, that the Lord did not favor shortcuts. Yet the singing went on, and in time the new thing took its place beside the old. So it may be again; for though honest practice is a faithful teacher, it is not the only one. The mind, too, works quietly and patiently while the fingers rest. Some men hear harmonies in their heads as clearly as others see a fence-post. Shall we say they are no musicians because their hands are soft? That would be as foolish as denying a farmer his name because he uses a horse instead of pulling the plough himself.
At the heart of this quarrel lies pride of craft. Many hold that only the act of playing grants a man standing, and that all else is mere talk. “Let him take up the cornet and prove it,” they say. If he cannot, he must sit among the listeners, no matter how fine a tune he imagines. It makes a stiff hierarchy, with the practiced men in front and the rest behind the stove. There’s justice in this—no one likes a pretender—but danger too, for it confuses method with meaning. Many a hymn has been shaped by those who could not lead a band but knew exactly what comforted a heart in sorrow or joy. If the worth of a song were measured only by hours of toil, then music would be mere gymnastics and the composer a kind of acrobat.
A plainspoken gentleman from down-lake put it neatly: “If a man hires a team to haul his logs, do we say he has no wood?” “But,” another replied, “if he never learned the woods, he won’t know punk from good timber.” That, we think, strikes truer. The question is not whether he uses a tool, but whether he has judgment. A tool may help a lazy man pretend for a day, but it may also help a thoughtful one express what long lay unspoken. Some practice till they bleed and still make only noise; another may give a few wise instructions and draw forth a tune that turns just right, like a carefully laid stone wall.
There is much talk, too, of “clout”—that modern hunger for admiration. Some fear the greedy will seize quick means and flaunt borrowed feathers. But that fear is older than any machine. We’ve seen men wear fine coats to hide poor morals. The cure for false show is not to ban every new coat, but to keep one’s eyes open and judge by more than the buttons. If a tune has life, it will endure; if it lacks it, no birthright can save it.
We’ve heard of harsh words at recent gatherings—of a young man shamed for speaking too freely of his new method. That is a pity. The North Country has room enough for strong opinions and for neighborliness too. One may honor discipline without turning it into a cudgel. The best craftsmen know this: they do not scorn a new plane because it’s sharp—they test it. They do not call every novice a fraud; they ask only whether his work can stand a storm.
The matter will not be settled soon, for it touches that deep pride in men—the old belief that suffering proves sincerity. Many feel, in their bones, that if art is easy, it cannot be sacred. Yet there are easy graces, and not all gifts arrive through pain. We’ve all seen a child take to song as naturally as breathing, and no one accuses him of cheating for his unearned gift. There is sweat enough in the world; not every tune must pass through the tollgate of suffering.
Meanwhile, the season turns. The loons call late in the evening, their sound carrying over the water like a slow horn. And if any concert is held at the Point before frost, may it be joined in goodwill—by practiced hands and curious minds alike. The lake has room for every honest boat, so long as its keel stays true.
—LARCHWICK
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What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?