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Yehudi Menuhin, Boy Violinist, Tells Of H imself
Child prodigies of music are managed
uich like prodigy actors. Their child-
prolonged as much as possible,
are kept in knee-pants—if they are
boys, of course—though their hair may be
going, gone. They are compelled to
freeze in anklets—if they are girls—al-
their shapely legs and tender hearts
be yearning for clinging silk hose,
s and managers are behind this ar-
jfinal postponement of maturity; one can
hardly blame them. Business is business.
Plenty of child prodigies ceased being prod
igies when their age could no longer be
kept secret. But even among the few gen
uine precocious musical geniuses one will
note the same tendency. The risk of losing
the indulgent leniency of the public and
ics is a great one. A middle-aged artist
ran no longer be generously patted on the
hack and told: “When you grow up you’ll
be all right. For a child you’re doing won
derfully.”
W e remember—it is quite some time ago,
but not so very long at that—when Misha
Elman mounted the platform attired in a
velvet Little Lord Fauntleroy suit and
i 1 led the audience, to the score of “What
i wonderful child!” to the heights of ec-
stae.v. After one concert a lady rushed be-
i the stage, kissed the child virtuoso on
■I cheeks and exclaimed: “My dear little
joy. I want you to meet my daughter and
play with her; she also is a cute little
ing, seven years old. How old are you,
irling?” “I am nineteen,” answered a
umly voice that belonged to the boy in
velvet knee-pants. The lady is reported
• have fainted.
] contrast to this rather lengthy intro-
tion we have Yehudi Menuhin, the boy
linist whom we interviewed on the S. S.
nn the other day a few minutes before
departure for Europe. Make
mistake about it—Menuhin
growing up. The child prod-
is becoming a young man.
' is not so much because of
age—he is but fourteen—
because he is that strange
I prodigy who, believe it or
wants to be grown-up even
quickly than his years per-
If there is one word in the
f ionarv that he despises it is
t word “prodigy”. It is told
once, when Yehudi saw a
er on which he was an-
nced as the “world-famous
iigy,” it made him so furi-
hat he begged his manager,
Salter, not to use that word
Menuhin advertising ma
il- “Is there art in music or
lere not?” he asked wrath-
y. “Do people merely come
>ee me or to hear me play?
-re is only one standard to
by: music is either good
r >ad. It’s not a question of
By PHINEAS J. BIRON
1 here is no one to compare with Yehudi
Menuhin, world-famous boy violinist, hail
ed by the foremost critics as the greatest
virtuoso of all timr. Our Roving Reporter
here relates of a chat with the musical
genius in which the boy speaks intimately
and unthout resem’e of his hobbies and am
bitions. No closer close-up of Yehudi than
this interview by our Roving Reporter has
ever been obtained for publication.
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grown-up
how young I am or how old
people are.” So there you are.
As we saw him on the boat, taking care
of his two younger sisters, he behaved with
the quiet dignity of a pater familias. He
is, of course, still the sturdy, normal boy
he was last year. Not tall for his age, but
well built. His brown eyes look at you in
a friendly, half-timid way. But there is
poise in his countenance, a non-artificiality
entirely free of self-consciousness.
Dressed in an unconventional golf suit,
an open white shirt, tieless, Menuhin was
eager to tell all about his coming eight
months of vacation. Of course he would
have to give a few concerts in Berlin, Paris
and London next fell, but the whole sum
mer would be play and studies. Yehudi—
in case you don’t know it—loves his gen
eral studies as well as he loves sports;
which is putting it strongly, for he knows
no greater pleasures than swimming, hik
ing and other outdoor athletics. That mar
vellous gift of memorizing which enables
him to fix a whole library of musical com
positions in his mind merely by reading
them proves the same in all his studies.
But, as he confided to us, languages are
his hobby. The boy virtuoso—we are care
ful not to call him a prodigy—loves to meet
people and wants to talk with them in their
YEHUDI MENUHIN
World-famous boy violinist, with his two sisters, snapped by our photog
rapher as he was sailing, the other day, for an 8-months’ vacation in
Europe. Menuhin will be fifteen when he returns next year.
own language. Already Yehudi knows, be
sides his native English, Hebrew, French
and German. Last summer he made good
progress in Italian, and now his ambition
is to know Dutch.
There is a touching incident which Me
nuhin, reminiscing, told us. It happened in
December, 1928. Menuhin had just finished
playing Tschaikowsky’s violin concerto
with the New York Philharmonic Orches
tra under Mengelberg. Conductor and or
chestra had given him a rousing ovation.
The audience had gone wild, standing and
shouting for half an hour. It was perhaps
the climax of his career to that date (he
was not yet twelve years old).
“How shall we spend the rest of the
afternoon, father?” asked Yehudi, as fresh
as though he had been sauntering in the
park. “I’d like to see something fine in
New York.”
“I’ll take you to see your birthplace,”
was the answer. It was a treat that had
long been promised him; the boy was eager
to go. He had often heard of his parents’
fierce struggle for existence in the early
days of their wedded life, when both were
students at New York University. A friend
offered her automobile for the excursion.
In a few minutes they drove up to Buc
hanan Street, University Heights.
There stood the house unchanged; under
the stairs was the place where Yehudi’s
baby carriage had been kept; a clothes line
swung just where it did when his little
clothes used to flutter on it. Then Yehudi
was shown the grocery where his mother
was refused a loaf of bread because the
last five cents in the family pocketbook
had been used for his father’s carfare to
work. As she came home, depressed by the
grocer's heartlessness, a plan to solve the
starvation problem sprang up in his moth
er’s mind. Telephoning the
butcher, she ordered two pounds
of Hamburger steak sent at
once. It was delivered via the
dumb-waiter. After taking the
meat off—to make sure she had
it—she called down, in answer
to the delivery boy’s request for
forty cents: “The lady of the
house is out; you’ll get paid
next time.”
A happier memory was reviv
ed when Yehudi’s father showed
him the long viaduct where,
night after night, his parents
had sung by the hour, laughing
away hardships and hunger
while they studied to equip
themselves for lfie. •
As Yehudi told us of this visit
to his birthplace he was both
sad and glad. He was filled with
pride for his devoted parents.
Looking toward his sisters as
they stood with his mother he
said: “I’ll tell you what the best
invest- (Continued on Page 18)