Whereupon Ornstein replies, savagely:
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Such violence, to the untutored and unprotected ear, is frankly appalling. There is small wonder that the author of it, getting the public by the ear-drums as he was bound to do, has been called a maniac by the conservatives and a colossal rebel by the radicals. Nevertheless, as I have pointed out in as much space as existed for the gesture, the composer of The Wild Men's Dance is by no means an originator of the somewhat startling innovation of playing in three or four keys at once. If you will examine the scores of his predecessors—Scriabine's especially—you will find authoritative prophecy there of this whole neo-futurist inquisition which the younger man at present conducts. Ornstein, in truth, and in spite of considerable popular acclaim to the contrary, appears merely to be executing the orders of his superiors. Scriabine, though dead, is in chief command. Leo Omstein is his myrmidon.
What, then, is the importance of the fellow? Is he really trying to say anything? Or is he perhaps, meanwhile laughing grotesquely up his sleeve, trying to say nothing—and succeeding? If he merely parodies the discoveries of his predecessors, wherein lies his claim to an original hearing? And if attempting to push along his harmonic inquiries unaided, is he doing so at the expense of all sin-
