and so on until another accent falls upon the initial C. Such an exercise is called a rhythmus, and the repetitions compel mental concentration just as surely as the addition of a column of figures does. I found that if the compass was extended four octaves, thus, from
the nine repetitions of the scale would require from three to four minutes if played at a moderate rate of speed. I saw at once that a state of mental concentration could not be avoided by the pupil, and that in this exercise lay a basic principle. I gave the exercise to my pupil. The result was that when the next lesson-hour came around and I asked her how she found the new exercise, she exclaimed: "How do I like it? Why, you have played a pretty trick on me! It took me nearly an hour to accomplish it; but I like it. Why did you not give it to me before!" "Because," I said, "I invented it simply in order to compel your attention to your work." Following up the principle of grouping the tones, I applied the rhythmic process not only to all sorts of scale passages, but included in the treatment arpeggios, broken chords, octaves, and in fact all passages idiomatic of the pianoforte. The work of amplification was readily accomplished, and the result was a complete method in which for the first time, so far as I am aware, scientific rhythmic treatment was elaborated. This "Accentual Treatment of Exercises," as I called the system, was first published in the Mason & Hoadley Method, New York, 1867. The importance of accentual treatment is now recognized in every modern method.
The idea of starting a series of matinées of chamber-music occurred to me. I wished especially to introduce to the public the "Grand Trio in B Major, Op. 8," by Johannes Brahms, and to play other concerted works, both classical and modern, for this kind of work interested me more than mere piano-playing. So I asked Carl Bergmann, who was the most noted orchestral conductor of those days, and thus well acquainted with musicians, to get together a good string quartet. This he accomplished in a day or two, and made me acquainted with Theodore Thomas, first violin; Joseph Mosenthal, second violin; and George Matzka, viola, Bergmann himself being the violoncellist. We very soon began rehearsing, and our first concert, or rather matinée, took place in Dodworth's Hall, opposite Eleventh street, and one door above Grace Church in Broadway. The program was as follows:
| Tuesday, November 27, 1855 | ||
| 1. | Quartet in D Minor, Strings | Schubert |
| 2. | Romance from Tannhäuser, "Abendstern" | Wagner |
| 3. | Pianoforte Solo, Fantasie Impromptu, Op. 66 (first time) | Chopin |
| Deux Préludes, D flat and G, Op. 24 | Heller | |
| 4. | Variations Concertante for Violoncello and Piano, Op. 17 | Mendelssohn |
| 5. | "Feldwärts flog ein Vöglein" | Nicolai |
| 6. | Grand Trio in B Major, Op. 8, Piano, Violin, and Cello (first time) | Brahms |
It will be observed that we started out with a novelty, Brahms's Trio, which was played then for the first time in America. I repeated it in Boston a few weeks later with the assistance of some members of the Mendelssohn Quintet Club. It received appreciation on both occasions and was listened to attentively, but without enthusiasm. The newspapers spoke well of it in general, but there were some who regarded it as constrained and unnatural. The vocal pieces were inserted in deference to the prevailing idea of the period that no musical entertainment could be enjoyed by the public without some singing. We quickly got over that notion, and thenceforth, with rare exceptions, our programs were confined to instrumental music.
It was my purpose in organizing these concerts to make a point of producing chamber-work, which had never before been heard here, especially those of Schumann and other modern writers.
THEODORE THOMAS AT TWENTY
THE organization as originally formed would probably have remained intact during all the years the concerts lasted had it not become apparent almost from the start that Theodore Thomas had in him the genius of conductorship. He possessed by nature a thoroughly musical organization and was a born conductor and leader.
Before we had been long together it became apparent that there was more or less friction between Thomas and Bergmann, who, being the conductor of the Germania and afterward of the Philharmonic orchestras, also a player of long experience and the organizer of the quartet, naturally assumed the leadership in the beginning. The result was that Bergmann withdrew after the first year, and Bergner, a fine violoncellist and active member of the Philharmonic Society, took his place. The organization was then called the Mason and Thomas Quartet, and so styled it won a wide reputation throughout the country. I should say in passing that Bergmann was an excellent though not a great conductor.
THE MASON-THOMAS QUARTET
From the time that Thomas took the leadership free and untrammeled, the quartet improved rapidly. His dominating influence was felt and acknowledged by us all. Moreover, he rapidly developed a talent for making programs by putting pieces into the right order of sequence, thus avoiding incongruities. He brought this art to perfection in the arrangement of his symphony concert programs.
Our viola, Matzka, was also an excellent musician, and for many years the first viola of the Philharmonic orchestra. Mosenthal, who played second violin, achieved a wide reputation as composer and conductor, in which latter capacity he did splendid work for the Mendelssohn Glee Club. He was also one of the best teachers of piano and violin in New York.
THOMAS AS CONDUCTOR
THOMAS's fame as a conductor has entirely overshadowed his earlier reputation as a violinist. He had a large tone, the tone of a player of the highest rank. He lacked the perfect finish of a great violinist, but he played in a large, quiet, and reposeful manner. This seemed to pass from his violin-playing into his conducting, in which there is the same sense of largeness and dignity, coupled, however, with the artistic finish which he lacked as a violinist. He is a very great conductor, the greatest we have ever had here, not only in the Beethoven symphonies and other classical music, but in Liszt, Wagner, and the extreme moderns. Why should he not conduct Wagner as well as anybody else, or better? Everything is large about Wagner, and everything is large about Thomas. His rates of tempo are in accord with those of the most celebrated conductors whom I heard fifty years ago. In modern times the tendency has been toward an increased rate of speed, and this detracts in large measure from the impressiveness of the works, especially those of Mozart, Beethoven, Von Weber, and others.
That the skilful orchestral conductor does not rely solely upon the ear but sometimes receives assistance from the eye in his work is illustrated by an experience of Theodore Thomas which he related while dining at my house some two years since. On one occasion, when a benefit concert was tendered to him, the orchestra was increased to jubilee dimensions, and I think there were sixteen violoncello-players, with other instruments in due proportion. During the final rehearsal Mr. Thomas became aware of some imperfections, probably of phrasing, and traced the error to the violoncellists, but could not at first detect the individual whose fault it was. On closer scrutiny he observed that one of them was bowing in the wrong way, and thus obscuring the phrasing.
The newspapers, in reviewing the concert, mentioned this incident as illustrating the wonderfully sensitive ear of the conductor, whereas on this occasion, at least, the eye was the detective agent.
It is possible, however, for a trained ear to detect errors in mere manipulation, and I am reminded by one of my former pupils that, having taken advantage, during one of his lessons, of my momentary absence in an adjoining room, to play a passage according to his own ideas of proper technic, he was astonished to hear me call out to him that he had used the wrong finger in striking one of the keys.
That Thomas had entire confidence in himself was shown in the outset of his career. One evening, as he came home tired out from his work, and after dinner had settled himself in a comfortable place for a good rest, a message came to him from the Academy of Music, about two blocks away from his house in East Twelfth street. An opera season was in progress there. The orchestra was in its place, and the audience seated, when word was received that Anschütz, the conductor, was ill. The management had not provided against that contingency, and was in a position of much embarrassment. Would Thomas come to the rescue? He had never conducted opera, and the work for the evening's performance was an opera with which he was unfamiliar. Here was a life's opportunity, and Thomas was equal to the occasion. He thought for a moment, then said, "I will." He rose quickly, got himself into his dress-suit, hurried to the Academy of Music, and conducted the opera as if it were a common experience. He was not a man to say, "Give me time until next week." He was always ready for every opportunity.
ABOUT TWENTY-FOUR YEARS OLD
On Christmas day, 1900, a friend presented me with a calendar for the year 1901. It has a leaf for each day of the year. The calendar evidently required much labor in preparation, and necessitated correspondence with many friends at home as well as abroad, and many are the cordial responses that were received. The result is a daily pleasure and surprise. The leaf for February 11, 1901, the day of my present writing, has reference to the third concert of chamber-music, eighth season of Mason and Thomas, which took place on Tuesday evening, February 10, 1862:
Tuesday, February 10, 1862
The third soirée of Mason and Thomas had the following program:
| Quartet, C Major, No. 2 | Cherubini |
| Piano Trio, D Major, Op. 70, No. 1 | Beethoven |
| Quartet, A Major, Op. 41, No. 3 | Schumann |
A program as interesting and fresh to-day as thirty-eight years ago. The weather was very cold,—below zero,—and during the largo of the trio the gas gave out. We continued playing for some time, but finally had to stop. The "Geister" [the composition here referred to is called by the Germans the "Geister Trio"] did not assist us! Do you remember the fact?
Es ist schon lange her.
Theodore Thomas.
KARL KLAUSER, MUSICAL DIRECTOR AT MISS PORTER'S SCHOOL
THROUGH Mosenthal our quartet became acquainted with Mr. Karl Klauser, who was an active and enthusiastic musician of thorough education, and who has accomplished a great deal of useful work both as a compiler and teacher of classic and modern compositions. Mr. Klauser is a native of St. Petersburg, born of German parents; he came to New York in 1850, and was engaged as musical director in Miss Porter's famous school for young ladies in 1855, a post which he filled with credit and ability for many years. He was enthusiastically fond of chamber-music, and frequently attended the rehearsals of our quartet; and it was through him that we were induced to give recitals in Farmington six months after our beginning in New York. On Thursday, June 26, 1856, our program was as follows:
| String Quartet in E flat, No. 4 | Mozart |
| Trio, Piano, Violin, and Violoncello, G Minor, Op. 15, No. 2 | Rubinstein |
| Variations from Quartet No. 5 | Beethoven |
| Also solos for pianoforte and for violoncello. | |
On the following day another recital was given, with an entire change of program.
At that time one of the undergraduates of the school was a young girl who is now the wife of a distinguished lawyer of New York, and is herself prominent in good works. Not long ago I received from her the following very agreeable letter about the early Farmington days:
My dear Dr. Mason: I am glad to hear that you are to share your pleasant "Memories" with your friends. I hope, in looking back to the happy times when you were young, you will not forget your annual visits to dear old Farmington; for if you do not remember them in words, many old admirers will wonder how you could fail to make much of occasions so precious to them.
As one of Miss Porter's girls, who can now live over again the coming to town of William Mason, Theodore Thomas, J. Mosenthal, G. Matzka, F. Bergner, and the long-looked-for chamber-concerts, I feel sure that in all of your generous giving of a God-given genius, you never gave more real pleasure than you gave those school-girls and teachers hungry for a taste of life outside the school, and for good music, the best of all company. You were then to them what you only hoped to be after years of hard work,—great men in your profession,—and they could not have dressed with more care or been more excited if they had been going to listen with royalty to the greatest of the old masters.
Among the choicest of my pictures of Farmington days is that of the girls in white and dainty pinks and greens and blues, with flowers to wear and flowers to throw to you, almost dancing down that beautiful street on a summer day to "the concert," and in the foreground a quaint dark figure whom all the girls remember on festive occasions as bearing the burden of her choice with a New England sense of propriety at war with her keen sympathy with all that is natural in young people, and with the pride in her good-looking family which made her blind to their youthful follies. That was long ago when we were giddy girls, but the verdict of our heads and hearts was a true one.
Sure that your memories, dear Dr. Mason, must be bright in the sunlight of so many warm friendships, I am listening to the music of long ago.
March 31, 1901.
LOUIS MOREAU GOTTSCHALK
I KNEW Gottschalk well, and was fascinated by his playing, which was full of brilliancy and bravura. His strong, rhythmic accent, his vigor and dash, were exciting and always aroused enthusiasm. He was the perfection of his school, and his effects had the sparkle and effervescence of champagne. He was as far as possible from being an interpreter of chamber or classical music, but, notwithstanding this, some of the best musicians of the strict style were frequently to be seen among his audience, among others Carl Bergmann, who told me that he always heard Gottschalk with intense enjoyment. He first made his mark through his arrangement of Creole melodies. They were well defined rhythmically, and he played them with absolute rhythmic accuracy. This clear definition in his interpretation contributed more than anything else to the fascination which he always exerted over his audience. He did not care for the German school, and on one occasion, after hearing me play Schumann at one of the Mason-Thomas matinées, he said: "Mason, I do not understand why you spend so much of your time over music like that; it is stiff and labored, lacks melody, spontaneity, and naïveté. It will eventually vitiate your musical taste and bring you into an abnormal state."
Although an enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven symphonies and other orchestral works, he did not care for the pianoforte sonatas, which he said were not written in accordance with the nature of the instrument. It has been said that he could play all of the sonatas by heart; but I am quite sure that Mr. Richard Hoffman, who was his intimate friend, will sustain me in the assertion that such was not the fact.
I have known Mr. Hoffman for more than fifty years, having met him for the first time in the year 1847 or thereabout. His playing is still characterized by precision, accuracy, and clearness in phrasing, with an excellent technic, combined with repose. I have many times enjoyed his artistic interpretations, and I heard him with great pleasure not a long while ago, on the occasion of his fiftieth anniversary as a teacher in this country.
Returning to Gottschalk, a funny thing happened one day. At the time of which I write, forty-five years ago, William Hall & Sons' music-store was in Broadway, corner of Park Place, and was a place of rendezvous for musicians. Going there one day, I met Gottschalk, who, holding up the proof-sheet of a title-page which he had just received from the printer, said: "Read that!" What I read was, "The Latest Hops," in big block letters after the fashion of an outside music title-page. "What does this mean?" I asked. "Well," he replied, "it ought to be 'The Last Hope,' but the printer, either by way of joke or from stupidity, has expressed it in this way. There is to be a new edition of my 'Last Hope,' and I am revising it for that purpose."
I have in my autograph-book a letter of his, undated, but written in the late fifties:
My dear M.: If you have nothing to do, come and spend the evening with me on Sunday next. No formality. Smoking required, impropriety allowed, and complete liberty, with as little music as possible. I was going to mention that we will have a glass of wine and chicken salad.
Your friend,
Gottschalk.
149 East Ninth Street.
PROPAGANDA FOR SCHUMANN'S MUSIC
GOTTSCHALK's remark about my liking for Schumann's music was at that time echoed by others, for when I returned from Germany and found Schumann virtually unknown here, I made it my mission to introduce his music into this country—a labor of love in which I was afterward greatly aided by the quartet concerts and by my teaching. Shortly after my return from Germany I went to Breusing's, then one of the principal music-stores in the city,—the Schirmers are his successors,—and asking for certain compositions by Schumann, I was informed that they had his music in stock, but as there was no demand for it, it was packed away in a bundle and kept in the basement. Pretty soon, however, my pupils began calling for Schumann's pieces, and Schumann moved up from the cellar to the main floor. His music was expensive, because it was published in sets, and if a pupil wanted to buy one of the "Novellettes" or "Kinderscenen," it was necessary to purchase the whole collection. After a while, however, some of the music-dealers began to publish a number of the pieces separately. This had the effect in some measure of opening up the sale of his music to pupils and amateurs.
SIGISMOND THALBERG
THALBERG's playing was characterized by grace, elegance, and perfection of finish in detail. His style was suave, courteous, and aristocratic. Being a pupil of Hummel, who had in turn taken lessons of Mozart for two years, it was quite within the line of descent that he should have acquired the extremely smooth legato touch of those masters. As distinguished from any pianist-composer up to his time, his specialty was the surrounding of a melody with arabesques and ornamental passages of scales and arpeggios played with rapidity, clearness, and brilliancy. Parish Alvars, the harpist, had originated this device, and Thalberg adapted it to the pianoforte, for which instrument it was better suited and more effective than on the harp.
The important influence of the upper-arm muscles in the production of powerful and resonant tones seems to have been but little known in those days. Leopold de Meyer's constant use of these, as noted elsewhere, was apparently unconscious and instinctive.
Thalberg's octave-playing was not altogether elastic and free from rigidity, for in long-continued and rapid octave passages a close observer would have noticed a contraction of his facial muscles and a compression of the lips, which would have been avoided under the conditions of properly devitalized upper-arm muscles and loose wrists.
Shortly after his arrival in our country he went by invitation to my brother's house in West Orange, New Jersey, on a visit of some weeks. This afforded an opportunity which was not neglected, and as a result I became well acquainted with him and his method of practice. In this way he was virtually one of my best teachers, although no regular lessons were received from him. Moreover, in several of his concerts I played with him his duo for two pianofortes on themes from "Norma," and these were occasions of great artistic profit. One learned much, also, from hearing him practise. His daily exercises included scale and arpeggio passages played at various rates of speed and with different degrees of dynamic force. These were always put into rhythmic form, and the measures, sometimes in triple and sometimes in quadruple time in many varieties, were invariably indicated by means of accentuation. Dynamic effects, such as crescendos and diminuendos, also received due attention. In short, as it seems to me, he made it a point—as well in the cultivation and development of physical technic as in his public performances—to play musically at all times.
Thalberg's technic seemed to be confined mainly to the finger, hand, wrist, and lower-arm muscles, but these he used in such a deft manner as to draw from his instrument the loveliest tones. He was altogether opposed to the high-raised finger of some of the modern schools, and in his work entitled "L'Art du Chant applique au Piano" he cautions students against this habit. The same advice had been previously given by Carl Czerny in his "Letters on the Art of Playing the Pianoforte," namely: "Do not strike the keys from too great a height, as in this case a thud will accompany the tone."
Thalberg adds: "Gewöhnlich arbeitet man zu viel mit den Fingern und zu wenig mit dem Geiste" ("Generally one works too much with the fingers and too little with the intelligence").
This is reasonable advice, for a touch which starts off simply for strength and mechanical development, separate from other traits, becomes eventually so obstinately fixed and determined that its influence will dominate and stand constantly in the way of poetic and musical development. In this connection it is well to remember and apply the proverb: "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."
He was very fond of his grand pianofortes, both of which were made by Érard of Paris. One of these instruments was drawn upon a much larger scale than had previously been made by this or, so far as I know, by any other manufacturer. The tone was powerful and of a lovely musical character. Thalberg's idea was that the better the instrument the greater the advantage afforded the virtuoso, not only for public playing, but as well for the purpose of practice and musical development I remember his telling me that a fine instrument even suggested ideas to the composer and furthered his work. An experience of many years has proved to me the soundness of his theory and the importance of its practical application.
The not uncommon assertion that "any piano will do for a beginner" is wrong in principle. How absurd to assert that any associates will do for children in the beginning! It is just at this tender age when impressions are so easily received that the best musical advantages should be afforded. What can be better adapted to the cultivation of a musical ear than the constant presence of musical tones of the highest quality and purity? The ear requires close musical companionship in order to promote corresponding development.
The cultivation of a physical technic is important, indeed indispensable, but it should not precede or be separated from musical companionship. Its development should at all stages be surrounded by a musical atmosphere in which its adaptability to the expression of poetical ideas may be developed. The heart and head should be closely united.
PEDAL AND PEDAL SIGNS—WHY NOT DISPENSE WITH THE LATTER?
PROLONGED or organ tones are not possible on the pianoforte. From the moment the hammer strikes the string the tone begins to diminish in volume and soon fades away. One of the chief arts of the pianist is to sustain a tone throughout the full value of the note which represents it, and this is accomplished either by steady pressure on the key or by the use of the open pedal, frequently misnamed the loud pedal. The use of the word "loud" in this connection is illogical and misleading. The word "open" is much better, because this pedal, when pressed, causes the dampers to be raised from the strings, thus leaving them open, and so prolonging the tones. Furthermore, the open pedal is constantly used in the softest and most delicate passages. Its mission is simply to prolong the tones, whether loud or soft. In either case the tone dies rapidly away, and the pianist, sensitively aware of this, and feeling the necessity of keeping up the volume of sound, is led unconsciously to anticipate or take the next tone a little before its due time. The effect of this process in continuation is to produce a feeling of unrest on the part of the hearer, and is fatal to repose. On this account Thalberg earnestly recommends to piano-students that "the tones invariably be held throughout their absolute or exact value" (see "L'Art du Chant"). Tones can be sustained, so far as this is possible on the pianoforte, in two ways, namely, by means of the open pedal or by holding down the keys firmly during the exact value represented by the notes. How can this value be determined? Solely through the medium of the ear. "The proof of the pudding is in the eating." The proof of musical sounds, as to quality and duration, is in the listening.
This being granted, it seems to follow that all signs, such as "Ped.," *, or √ √, etc., should be discarded as being even worse than useless, for when pupils pay careful attention to them they are apt to be guided solely by the eye. They press down the pedal at the sign "Ped.," and release it at the following asterisk (*), doing this in a merely perfunctory way, and hence they either fail to produce a true legato effect or err in the opposite direction of an over-legato, which results in a confusion of sounds. This may be best avoided by practising on an instrument of fine musical quality and beautiful singing tone, which promotes the habit of listening attentively, and thus contributes in the highest degree to the development and training of the ear.
It is true that musical temperament is inborn, and those who possess it have native insight, and hence develop with rapidity. There are, however, very many who are not "to the manner born." Such are obliged to acquire habits through persistent and persevering effort. All travel the same road, but the genius flies while the less gifted plods along. However, for the benefit and consolation of the latter, I remind them that the tortoise left the hare asleep and won the race. The ear should be cultivated for music, the eye for painting, the mind in both; and the heart especially in music, because the latter is the "language of the emotions."
A little pedal study from my work entitled "Touch and Technic" (Part IV, page 18), will serve to illustrate what I mean. It is on an elementary plane and can easily be accomplished by a beginner with a little care and ordinary perseverance.
It is to be played with only one finger, and the tones of the melody must receive special emphasis so as to stand out clearly, and they must be sustained by means of the open pedal throughout the exact length of time represented by the notes. The crescendo and diminuendo must be observed according to direction, and as a help to this effect the soft pedal may be used simultaneously, either all of the time or occasionally, in an experimental way and according to fancy. This promotes the faculty of judgment and leads to individuality, a very desirable result.
The melody is on the middle line and the accompaniment on the outer lines. The melody must predominate in power, and must be sustained throughout the exact value of its representative notes, which are mostly dotted halves, viz.: . This is accomplished by firmly pressing the open pedal, the finger in the meanwhile playing the accompaniment. Thus the tone is sustained solely by means of the pedal. Carefully observe the effects of crescendo < and diminuendo >. Play strictly in time.
In the final measure still continue the pedal pressure after the C in the treble has been played. There are now four tones sounding together. Now replace the finger, silently and without striking, on the melody key E. While still pressing this key raise the foot from the pedal. This leaves the E sounding alone. Hold down the key until the tone has quite died away.
RUBINSTEIN AND THE AUTOGRAPH-HUNTER
ONE afternoon I accompanied Rubinstein from his hotel to Steinway Hall, where he was to give a recital. Just outside of the stage-entrance were two young ladies, one of whom stepped forward and, handing me a sheet of paper and a pencil, begged me to ask Rubinstein for his autograph, and to leave it for her in the dressing-room, so that she could get it after the recital. I told her that Rubinstein did not like writing autographs; that he was a man of kindly disposition, but sometimes acted from impulse; nevertheless, I would see what could be done. So, following Rubinstein up-stairs to the retiring-room, I handed him the writing materials, stating the young lady's request.
He took them, saying nothing, but walked with an air of determination to the window, opened it, and threw them into the street "Mason," he said, "I don't like your country. People pry too much into private affairs." He then went on to speak of newspaper writers who had interviewed him and ingeniously beguiled him into speaking of many things which concerned solely his own personality, and the next day published all of these things in detail. He said: "There is absolutely no privacy in this country." "Rubinstein," I said, "I can quite appreciate your position, and understand why you should have come to such conclusions, but I am sure that upon due reflection you will realize that you are doing us an injustice. You have been incessantly occupied during your sojourn here, have hurried from place to place, given concerts with hardly any intermission, and naturally have had no time to see people in their homes. You have not been able to judge of our domestic life or to mingle in society and study our habits." He admitted this at once and made due acknowledgment. Wieniawski, who was once with us when a similar conversation occurred just before the close of their stay here, said: "Mason, I regret extremely that I have not been able to go out to Orange to visit you. We have traveled constantly and rushed from place to place in order to fulfil concert engagements, so that there has been no time for social intercourse. I don't wish you to gather from my apparent neglect an idea that Poles are unsociable; on the contrary, I assure you we are very fond of social life."
Rubinstein came here with a great reputation, and achieved a good success. He had transcendent ability, accompanied, however, by certain limitations. By nature impulsive and excitable, he often lost self-control, and in consequence he frequently anticipated his climax. He was like a general who excelled in a brilliant sortie, but who had not the dogged persistence necessary to a long-sustained battle, and at the critical points he was constantly losing his self-poise. When, however, he did effect a climax, it was apt to be a great one, a jubilee. Liszt, on the other hand, was remarkable for his reserve force and for the discretion with which he made use of it; for if, perchance, he missed a climax he immediately made preparation for a new one, and was always sure to reach the zenith at precisely the right moment.
There were occasions on which Rubinstein played with the most wonderful repose, and at such times his playing was musical and poetic in the highest degree. This was particularly the case in slow or moderate movements characterized by tenderness, affection, and fervor. But in the rapid and spirited movements his tendency was to run away and finally to lose self-possession—an affliction to which the large majority of concert pianists are subject. Violinists and singers are not nearly so much so, because they can prolong their tones with steady force, or diminish and increase the tone at will. As I have already pointed out, the case is different with the pianist, for after the piano-key has been struck the tone immediately begins to decrease in power, and this incites the player to produce another tone; so he proceeds a little too quickly, constantly gaining a little in speed and crowding one tone upon the other. The effect is exasperating to the listener, who becomes more and more restless, until finally all quiet and repose is utterly lost.
The unevenness in Rubinstein's playing I believe to have been wholly due to the temperamental moods of a man of extreme artistic sensitiveness. He was a thoroughly conscientious artist and worked at the piano incessantly many hours a day. I remember his once saying to me: "I dislike nothing more than to have people say to me, as they frequently do, 'But you do not have to practise, for you are a born genius and get everything by nature.' It is provoking to listen to such stuff after having worked so hard."
EVOLUTION IN MUSICAL IDEAS BEETHOVEN PIANOFORTE RECITALS
NO pianist ever dreamed of playing Beethoven's sonatas in public in those days. They were reserved for the parlor; and one, or two at most, were enough for an evening. The mental absorption of this amount was sufficient. Lighter pieces filled out the program. I am quite sure that it was Bülow who first played several of Beethoven's sonatas consecutively at a recital. I learned of this through Anton Rubinstein when he was here in 1873. He spoke of it as being an extraordinary thing, and added that, as a musician, he could not give it his approval. It might be a scientific thing to do, but was certainly not congenial to a true musical nature, which required variety. A dinner consisting of heavy dishes throughout, without the interspersion of condiments, vegetables, and tarts to stir and incite the appetite, would be both distasteful and fatal to good digestion. The pieces selected for the musical feast should be homogeneously arranged; and so should the various courses of the dinner.
However, notwithstanding what Rubinstein said in 1873, I noticed that, but a comparatively short time afterward, he also began the practice of giving recitals at which he played several sonatas in sequence. It is possible that he did this less to gratify his own personal artistic tastes than in deference to those of the public who had not his musical organization, and so could stand the intensity of the thing while he profited by the physical practice.
RUBINSTEIN'S FAVORITE SEAT AT A PIANOFORTE RECITAL
RUBINSTEIN, as a listener, was particular as to the location of his seat at a concert or recital of pianoforte music, and always sought a place in one of the galleries on the left hand, facing the stage. Thus he sat in the corner diagonal to the pianoforte, looking over the right shoulder of the player.
It is true that even on the ground floor or parterre of a hall this position affords a great advantage, and the tones of the pianoforte are essentially more full of resonance and musical tone than in any other location. This may be accounted for on the theory that the raised lid of the instrument deflects the sound in that direction. There is a corresponding disadvantage in a position on the opposite side of the house, especially if seated on the ground floor near the stage. I have frequently tried both of these positions, and always with the same result; hence I have learned to make due allowance in judging of the pianist. A listener unaware of this difference may seriously err in estimating the tone quality of the instrument.
BACH'S "TRIPLE CONCERTO" AND "LES AGRÉMENTS"
IN Bach's time many embellishments were used in playing the clavichord. They were all included under the general title Les Agréments, or, in German, Manieren. Of these the mordent, almost identical with the modern Pralltriller, was in most frequent use. It is quite a little thing and simple enough, but there are few players who succeed in giving it the right snap or rattle, without which its true significance is wholly lost. I have already mentioned playing this concerto with Klindworth and Pruckner at a court concert in Weimar. While previously rehearsing it, Liszt was very particular in his directions, especially regarding the mordents, and we did our best to follow them. Moreover, Liszt was an authority. He always made thorough investigation of a subject before expressing an opinion upon it, and he was very careful to give a historically accurate and truthful rendering of these old-fashioned ornaments. I afterward found that when three pianists came together for the purpose of playing this concerto a good deal of time was wasted in discussing the proper way of playing the mordent. It was on the program of the Mason-Thomas matinées in New York more than once, and on one occasion we had the assistance of the well-known pianists Messrs. Timm and Scharfenberg. There was no friction at that time, as the three performers were of one mind.
In May, 1873, Theodore Thomas arranged a grand musical festival in New York, of which Rubinstein was the principal attraction. The "Triple Concerto" was one of the features of the festival. Rubinstein played the first piano, and Mills and I the other two.
The concerto has the accompaniment of a string quartet, which may be doubled or increased to the size of a small orchestra if desired. It was thought best to have a preliminary rehearsal for the three pianos alone, and a time was appointed for our meeting together at my studio in Steinway Hall. Mr. Thomas, not being familiar with the concerto, wished to be present in order to become acquainted with it, and at the appointed time was the first to make his appearance. I told him that Rubinstein, not precise in historical methods, would play the mordents in accordance with the mood in which he happened to be. "However," I continued, "I have an old book by Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, published in Berlin in 1765, in which he gives written examples of all of the Manieren. We will show this to Rubinstein and have some fun. But I do not propose to waste time in discussions. He can play as he likes, and Mills and I will follow suit."
Rubinstein shortly made his appearance, and Mills came a little later. I told Rubinstein about my ancient authority, adding that we should be spared the tediousness of a discussion as to the manner of playing. "Let me see the old book," said Rubinstein. Running over the leaves, he came to the illustrations of the mordent. The moment his eyes fell upon them he exclaimed: "All wrong; here is the way I play it," and going to the piano, he played as follows:
This is what Marpurg calls a kind of double mordent, or Doppelschlag. The three keys are struck almost simultaneously, but the middle one only is held down, while the upper and lower ones are immediately released, thus producing the effect of a turn. The true way of playing the mordent is thus:
However, we adopted Rubinstein's way without comment.
What I have written about Rubinstein and Bach's "Triple Concerto in D Minor" recalls to my mind an occasion when I played it with Mr. Boscovitz and Mme. Essipoff at the latter's last recital here, I think in the year 1876. When, at the rehearsal, we came to discuss the mordents, Essipoff exclaimed: "I cannot play those things; show me how they are done." After repeated trials, however, she failed to get the knack of playing them, as, indeed, so many pianists do, so at the recital she omitted them and left their performance to Boscovitz and me. I think the effect of the concerto was not marred by the omission. The incident just related most not be construed as in any degree a disparagement of Mme. Essipoff's playing; as an artist she belongs easily in the first rank of women players and her style is charming.
In taking leave of my old book by Marpurg I present a specimen of advice which he addresses to pianoforte-students, namely: "In regard to deportment and manners [at the pianoforte], one should take care to avoid making faces, bobbing the head, snorting, twisting the mouth, gritting the teeth, and all such ridiculous things. In the absence of the teacher, a pupil who has fallen into such ungainly habits can correct them by means of a mirror placed in front on the music-rack." The foregoing is as honest a translation from the German as I am able to make. Daring a half-century's experience in pianoforte-teaching I do not remember a single case among my pupils of one who stood in need of this advice.
A SIGNIFICANT AUTOGRAPH FROM RUBINSTEIN
JUST before leaving Weimar I had asked Rubinstein to write in my autograph-book, and he immediately complied.
The theme, which he wrote in the key of E flat major, is characteristic of him. It is strong and has a vigorous upward movement. It suggests the young man just starting out in life, with the vitality and courage of early manhood. It is dated "Weymar, le 5. Juin, 1854."
I did not see Rubinstein again until 1873, the year of his visit to this country. Happening in his room one day with my book, the idea occurred to me of asking him to write in it again, under his former signature. For some reason he was averse to doing so, but finally consented. At a glance the second theme seems like the first, but on examination the difference will appear. He has transposed the theme to E flat minor, and its character is entirely changed. The young man has reached the summit of the hill and realizes that he is now upon the descent. The allegro maestoso of former years has changed to an adagio, and, as Rubinstein aptly writes, it is "not the same."
An autograph written for me by Joachim Raff is also interesting. On the night before I left Weimar, June 25, 1854, Raff and I had supper at the Erbprinz together, and as the evening wore on we somehow got into a heated discussion about Zukunftsmusik, taking opposite sides. However, as a matter of course, we made up before parting. He had previously written his musical autograph in the book, but now he added a kind thought to speed me on my way, namely: "That he may live well, work well, and soon return to Weimar music. Mitternachtscheide."
RUBINSTEIN, PADEREWSKI, AND "YANKEE DOODLE"
NOT long before Rubinstein's departure for Europe he wrote a large number of variations on "Yankee Doodle," and meeting me shortly afterward, he informed me of the fact, and added: "I have inscribed your name at the head of the title-page, and they are now in the hands of the publisher." He said further, and in a seemingly apologetic tone: "They are good, I assure you, and I have taken much pleasure in writing them." He played this composition at his farewell concert in New York, and in point of fact the variations were very well made; but I think that much of his playing at the concert referred to was improvised.
The second season Paderewski was here I sat next to him at a dinner given just after his arrival. During conversation he said somewhat suddenly: "Mr. Mason, I have just composed a fantasy on 'Yankee Doodle,' and have dedicated it to you."