XXV.
AGNES MORGAN
SIMPLICITY IN PIANO TEACHING
One of the busiest of New York piano teachers, whose list of students taking private lessons in a season, almost touches the hundred mark, is Mrs. Agnes Morgan. Mrs. Morgan has been laboring in this field for more than two decades, with ever increasing success. And yet so quietly and unobtrusively is all this accomplished, that the world only knows of the teacher through the work done by her pupils. The teacher has now risen to the point where she can pick and choose her own pupils, which is a great comfort to her, for it dispels much of the drudgery of piano teaching, and is one of the reasons why she loves her work.
When one teaches from nine in the morning till after six every day of the season, it is not easy to find a leisure hour in which to discuss means and methods. By a fortunate chance, however, such an interview was recently possible.
The questions had been borne in upon me: By what art or influence has this teacher attracted so large a following? What is it which brings to her side not only the society girl but the serious art-student and young teacher? What is the magnet which draws so many pupils to her that five assistants are needed to prepare those who are not yet ready to profit by her instruction? When I came in touch with this modest, unassuming woman, who greeted me with simple cordiality, and spoke with quiet dignity of her work, I felt that the only magnet was the ability to impart definite ideas in the simplest possible way.
"Dr. William Mason, with whom I studied," began Mrs. Morgan, "used to say that a musical touch was born, not made; but I have found it possible to so instruct a pupil that she can make as beautiful a tone as can be made; even a child can do this. The whole secret lies in arm and wrist relaxation, with arched hand, and firm nail joint.
INSPIRATION FROM AN AMERICAN TEACHER
"I feel that Dr. Mason himself was the one who made me see the reason of things. I had always played more or less brilliantly, for technic came rather easy to me. I had studied in Leipsic, where I may say I learned little or nothing about the principles of piano playing, but only 'crammed' a great number of difficult compositions. I had been with Moszkowski also; but it was really Dr. Mason, an American teacher, who first set me thinking. I began to think so earnestly about the reason for doing things that I often argued the points out with him, until he would laugh and say, 'You go one way and I go another, but we both reach the same point in the end.' And from that time I have gone on and on until I have evolved my own system of doing things. A teacher cannot stand still. I would be a fool not to profit by the experience gained through each pupil, for each one is a separate study. This has been a growth of perhaps twenty-five years—as the result of my effort to present the subject of piano technic in the most concise form. I have been constantly learning what is not essential, and what can be omitted.
SIMPLICITY
"Simplicity Is the keynote of my work. I try to teach only the essentials. There are so many études and studies that are good, Czerny, for instance, is splendid. I believe in it all, but there is not time for much of it. So with Bach. I approve of studying everything we have of his for piano, from the 'Little Pieces' up to the big Preludes and Fugues. Whenever I can I use Bach. But here again we have not time to use as much of Bach as we should like. Still I do the best I can. Even with those who have not a great deal of time to practise, I get in a Bach Invention whenever possible.
"When a new pupil comes who is just starting, or has been badly taught, she must of course begin with hand formation. She learns to form the arch of the hand and secure firm finger joints, especially the nail joint. I form the hand away from the piano, at a table. Nothing can be done toward playing till these things are accomplished. I often have pupils who have been playing difficult music for years, and who consider themselves far advanced. When I show them some of these simple things, they consider them far too easy until they find they cannot do them. Sometimes nothing can be done with such pupils until they are willing to get right down to rock bottom, and learn how to form the hand. As to the length of time required, it depends on the mentality of the pupil and the kind of hand. Some hands are naturally very soft and flabby, and of course it is more difficult to render them strong.
FINGER ACTION
"When the arch of the hand is formed, we cultivate intelligent movement in the finger tips, and for this we must have a strong, dependable nail joint. Of course young students must have knuckle action of the fingers, but I disapprove of fingers being raised too high. As we advance, and the nail joint becomes firmer and more controlled, there is not so great need for much finger action. Velocity is acquired by less and less action of the fingers; force is gained by allowing arm weight to rest on the fingers; lightness and delicacy by taking the arm weight off the fingers—holding it back.
"I use no instruction books for technical drill, but give my own exercises, or select them from various sources. Certain principles must govern the daily practise, from the first. When they are mastered in simple forms later work is only development. Loose wrist exercises, in octaves, sixths, or other forms, should form a part of the daily routine. So should scale playing, for I am a firm believer in scales of all kinds. Chords are an important item of practise. How few students, uninstructed in their principles, ever play good chords? They either flap the hand down from the wrist, with a weak, thin tone, or else they play with stiff, high wrists and arms, making a hard, harsh tone. In neither case do they use any arm weight. It often takes some time to make them see the principles of arm weight and finger grasp.
QUESTIONS OF PEDALING
"Another point which does not receive the attention it deserves is pedaling. Few students have a true idea of the technic of the foot on the pedal. They seem to know only one way to use the damper pedal, and that is to come down hard on it, perhaps giving it a thump at the same time. I give special preparatory exercises for pedal use. Placing the heel on the floor, and the forepart of the foot on the pedal, they learn to make one depression with every stroke of the metronome; when this can be done with ease, then two depressions to the beat, and so on. In this exercise the pedal is not pressed fully down; on the contrary there is but a slight depression; this vibration on the pedal has the effect of a constant shimmering of light upon the tones, which is very beautiful." Here the artist illustrated most convincingly with a portion of a Chopin Prelude. "One needs a flexible ankle to use the pedal properly; indeed the ankle should be as pliant as the wrist. I know of no one else who uses the pedal in just this fashion; so I feel as though I had discovered it.
"Yes, I have numbers of pupils among society people; girls who go out a good deal and yet find time to practise a couple hours a day. The present tendency of the wealthy is to take a far more serious view of music study than was formerly the case. They feel its uplifting and ennobling influence, respect its teachers, and endeavor to do carefully and well whatever they attempt.
"While necessary and important, the technical foundation is after all but a small part compared to the training for rhythmic sense, and for the knowledge of how to produce good and beautiful results in musical interpretation."
XXVI.
EUGENE HEFFLEY
MODERN TENDENCIES IN PIANO MUSIC
Eugene Heffley, the Founder and first President of the MacDowell Club, of New York, a pianist and teacher of high ideals and most serious aims, came to New York from Pittsburg, in 1900, at the suggestion of MacDowell himself. He came to make a place for himself in the profession of the metropolis, and has proved himself a thoroughly sincere and devoted teacher, as well as a most inspiring master; he has trained numerous young artists who are winning success as pianists and teachers.
Mr. Heffley, while entertaining reverence for the older masters, is very progressive, always on the alert to discover a new trend of thought, a new composer, a new gospel in musical art. He did much to make known and arouse enthusiasm for MacDowell's compositions, when they were as yet almost unheard of in America. In an equally broad spirit does he introduce to his students the works of the ultra modern school, Debussy, Rachmaninoff, Florent Schmitt, Reger, Liadow, Poldini and others.
"My students like to learn these new things, and the audiences that gather here in the studio for our recitals, come with the expectation of being enlightened in regard to new and seldom heard works, and we do not disappoint them. Florent Schmitt, in spite of his German surname, is thoroughly French in his manner and idiom, though they are not of the style of Debussy; he has written some beautiful things for the piano; a set of short pieces which are little gems. I rank Rachmaninoff very highly, and of course use his Preludes, not only the well-known ones—the C and G minor—but the set of thirteen in one opus number; they are most interesting. I use a good deal of Russian music; Liadow has composed some beautiful things; but Tschaikowsky, in his piano music, is too complaining and morbid, as a rule, though he is occasionally in a more cheerful mood. It seems as though music has said all it can say along consonant lines, and regular rhythms. We must look for its advancement in the realm of Dissonance; not only in this but in the way of variety in Rhythm. How these modern composers vary their rhythms, sometimes three or four different ones going at once! It is the unexpected which attracts us in musical and literary art, as well as in other things: we don't want to know what is coming next; we want to be surprised.
"Of the classic literature, I use much Bach, when I can. I used to give more Mozart than I do now; latterly I have inclined toward Haydn; his Variations and Sonatas are fine; my students seem to prefer Haydn also. I thoroughly believe in the value of polyphonic music as a mental study; it is a necessity. And Bach is such a towering figure, such a rock of strength in musical art. Bach was essentially a Christian, and this element of devoutness, of worship, shines out in everything he wrote. I do not believe that music, without this element of worship, will live. Tschaikowsky did not have it, nor Berlioz, nor even Mozart, for Mozart wrote merely from the idea of sheer beauty of sound; in that sense he was a pagan. I doubt if Strauss has it. One cannot foresee how the future will judge the music of to-day; what will it think of Schönberg? I am holding in abeyance any opinion I might form regarding his work till I have had more time to know it better. I can only say I have heard his string Quartet three times. The first time I found much in it to admire; the second time I was profoundly moved by certain parts of it, and on the third occasion I felt that the work, especially the latter part, contained some of the most beautiful music I had ever listened to.
"In regard to the technical training my pupils receive, it is not so easy to formulate my manner of teaching. Each pupil is a separate study, and is different from every other. As you well know, I am not a 'method man': I have little use for the so-called piano method. To be a true teacher of the piano is a high calling indeed; for there are many pedagogues but comparatively few real teachers. I make a distinction between the two. A pedagogue is one who, filled with many rules and much learning, endeavors to pour his knowledge into the pupil; whereas the true teacher seeks to draw out what is in the pupil. He strives to find what the pupil has aptitude for, what he likes to do and can do best. The teacher must be something of a psychologist, or how can he correctly judge of the pupil's temperament, his tastes, his mentality, and what to do for him?
"When a new pupil comes, I must make a mental appraisement of his capacity, his likelihood to grasp the subject, his quickness of intelligence, his health, and so on. No two pupils can be treated in the same way. One who has little continuity, who has never followed out a serious line of thought in any direction, must be treated quite differently from one of an opposite mentality and experience. It would be useless to give Bach to the first pupil, it would only be a waste of time and patience: he could not comprehend the music in any sense; he would have no conception of the great things that Bach stands for. Such a course of treatment would only make him hate music; whereas to one of a more serious and thoughtful turn of mind, you might give any amount of Bach.
"A student with a poor touch and undeveloped hand, must go through a regular course of training. The hand is first placed in position, either at the keyboard or on a table; the fingers are taught to start with up movements, as the lifting muscles need special attention. A muscle or a finger, is either taut, flabby or stiff; it is the taut condition I strive for—to make the finger responsive, like a fine steel spring.
"It is absolutely necessary to establish correct finger action at the outset; for the sake of finger development, clearness, and accuracy. When single fingers can make accurate up and down movements, we can put two fingers together and acquire a perfect legato. I teach three kinds of legato—the passage legato, the singing legato, and the accompanying legato; the pupil must master the first before attempting the others. I advise technic practise with each hand alone, for you must know I am a firm believer in the study of pure technic outside of pieces.
"As the student advances we take up chord playing with different touches, scales, arpeggios and octaves. I institute quite early what I call polyphonic technic—one hand doing a different movement or touch from the other. This works out in scales and arpeggios with a variety of touches—one hand playing a passage or scale staccato while the other plays legato, and vice versa."
Asked if he taught technical material without a book, Mr. Heffley replied:
"No, I generally use the Heinrich Germer work, as it covers the ground very satisfactorily; it is compact, concise, and complete in one volume. I also use Mertke to some extent. Every form of exercise must be worked out in all keys; I find the books useful for all kinds of students. I may add that I use comparatively few études.
"If the student seems to have a very imperfect rhythmic sense, I use the metronome, but as sparingly as possible, for I want to establish the inner sense of rhythm.
"In regard to memorizing. I give no special advice, but counsel the student to employ the way which is easiest and most natural to him. There are three distinct ways of committing music: the Analytic, Photographic, and Muscular. The Analytic memory picks the passage apart and learns just how it is constructed, and why; the Photographic memory can see the veritable picture of the passage before the mind's eye; while the Muscular memory lets the fingers find the notes. This is not a very reliable method, but some pupils have to learn in this way. Of course the Analytical memory is the best; when the pupil has the mental ability to think music in this way, I strongly recommend it.
"One point I make much of in my teaching, and that is Tone Color, as a distinct factor in musical interpretation. It is not merely a question of using the marks of expression, such as FF, MF, PP, and so on; it is more subtle than that—it is the quality of tone I seek after. Sometimes I work with a pupil for several minutes over a single tone, until he really comprehends what he has to do to produce the right quality of tone, and can remember how he did it. The pedal helps wonderfully, for it is truly the 'soul of the piano.'
"Some pupils have fancy but no imagination, and vice versa. The terms are not synonymous. Reading poetry helps to develop the aesthetic sense; pictures help also, and nature. I must necessarily take into account the pupil's trend of temperament while instructing him.
"Interpretative expression is not a positive but a relative quantity. One player's palette is covered with large blotches of color, and he will paint the picture with bold strokes; another delights in delicate miniature work. Each will conceive the meaning and interpretation of a composition through the lens of his own temperament. I endeavor to stimulate the imagination of the pupil through reading, through knowledge of art, through a comprehension of the correlation of all the arts.
"The musical interpreter has a most difficult, exacting and far-reaching task to perform. An actor plays one part night after night; a painter is occupied for days and weeks with a single picture; a composer is absorbed for the time being on one work only. The pianist, on the other hand, must, during a recital, sweep over the whole gamut of expression: the simple, the pastoral, the pathetic, the passionate, the spiritual—he is called upon to portray every phase of emotion. This seems to me a bigger task than is set before any other class of art-workers. The pianist must be able to render with appropriate sentiment the simplicity and fresh naïveté of the earlier classics, Haydn, Mozart; the grandeur of Bach; the heroic measures of Beethoven; the morbid elegance of Chopin; the romanticism of Schumann; the magnificent splendor of Liszt.
"In choosing musical food for my pupils, I strive to keep away from the beaten track of the hackneyed. The mistake made by many teachers is to give far too difficult music. Why should I teach an old war-horse which the pupil has to struggle over for six months without being really able to master, and which he will thoroughly hate at the end of that time? The Scherzo Op. 31, of Chopin, and the Liszt Rhapsodies he can hear in the concert room, where he can become familiar with most of the famous piano compositions. Why should he not learn to know many less hackneyed pieces, which do not so frequently appear on concert programs?
"Herein lies one of the great opportunities for the broad-minded teacher—to be individual in his work. According to his progressive individuality will his work be valued."
XXVII.
GERMAINE SCHNITZER
MODERN METHODS IN PIANO STUDY
"It is difficult to define such a comprehensive term as technic, for it means so much," remarked Germaine Schnitzer the French pianist to me one day, when we were discussing pianistic problems. "There is no special sort or method of technic that will do for all players, for every mentality is different; every hand is peculiar to itself, and different from every other. Not only is each player individual in this particular, but one's right hand may differ from one's left; therefore each hand may require separate treatment.
"An artistic technic can be acquired only by those who have an aptitude for it, plus the willingness to undertake the necessary drudgery; practise alone, no matter how arduous, is not sufficient. Technic is evolved from thought, from hearing great music, from much listening to great players; intent listening to one's own playing, and to the effects one strives to make. It is often said that the pianist cannot easily judge of the tonal effects he is producing, as he is too near the instrument. With me this is not the case. My hearing is so acute that I know the exact dynamics of every tone, every effect of light and shade; thus I do not have to stand at a distance, as the painter does, even if I could do so, in order to criticize my work, for I can do this satisfactorily at close range.
"I hardly know when I learned technic; at all events it was not at the beginning. At the start I had some lessons with quite a simple woman teacher. We lived near Paris, and my elder sister was then studying with Raoul Pugno; she was a good student and practised industriously. She said she would take me to the master, and one day she did so. I was a tiny child of about seven, very small and thin—not much bigger than a fly. The great man pretended he could hardly see me. I was perched upon the stool, my feet, too short to reach the floor, rested on the extension pedal box which I always carried around with me, I went bravely through some Bach Inventions. When I finished, Pugno regarded me with interest. He said he would teach me; told me to prepare some more Inventions, some Czerny studies and the Mendelssohn Capriccio, Op. 22, and come to him in four weeks. Needless to say, I knew every note of these compositions by heart when I took my second lesson. Soon I was bidden to come to him every fortnight, then every week, and finally he gave me two lessons a week.
"For the first five years of my musical experience, I simply played the piano. I played everything—sonatas, concertos—everything; large works were absorbed from one lesson to the next. When I was about twelve I began to awake to the necessity for serious study; then I really began to practise in earnest. My master took more and more interest in my progress and career: he was at pains to explain the meaning of music to me—the ideas of the composers. Many fashionable people took lessons of him, for to study with Pugno had become a fad; but he called me his only pupil, saying that I alone understood him. I can truly say he was my musical father; to him I owe everything. We were neighbors in a suburb of Paris, as my parents' home adjoined his; we saw a great deal of him and we made music together part of every day. When he toured in America and other countries, he wrote me frequently; I could show you many letters, for I have preserved a large number—letters filled with beautiful and exalted thoughts, expressed in noble and poetic language. They show that Pugno possessed a most refined, superior mind, and was truly a great artist.
"I studied with Pugno ten years. At the end of that time he wished me to play for Emil Saur. Saur was delighted with my work, and was anxious to teach me certain points. From him I acquired the principles of touch advocated by his master, Nicholas Rubinstein. These I mastered in three months' time, or I might say in two lessons.
"According to Nicholas Rubinstein, the keys are not to be struck with high finger action, nor is the direct end of the finger used. The point of contact is rather just back of the tip, between that and the ball of the finger. Furthermore we do not simply strive for plain legato touch. The old instruction books tell us that legato must be learned first, and is the most difficult touch to acquire. But legato does not bring the best results in rapid passages, for it does not impart sufficient clarity. In the modern idea something more crisp, scintillating and brilliant is needed. So we use a half staccato touch. The tones, when separated a hair's breadth from each other, take on a lighter, more vibrant, radiant quality; they are really like strings of pearls. Then I also use pressure touch, pressing and caressing the keys—feeling as it were for the quality I want; I think it, I hear it mentally, and I can make it. With this manner of touching the keys, and this constant search for quality of tone, I can make any piano give out a beautiful tone, even if it seems to be only a battered tin pan.
TONE WHICH VIBRATES THROUGH THE WHOLE BODY
"Weight touch is of course a necessity; for it I use not only arms and shoulders, but my whole body feels and vibrates with the tones of the piano. Of course I have worked out many of these principles for myself; they have not been acquired from any particular book, set of exercises, or piano method; I have made my own method from what I have acquired and experienced in ways above mentioned.
ON MEMORIZING
"In regard to memorizing piano music I have no set method. The music comes to me I know not how. After a period of deep concentration, of intent listening, it is mine, a permanent possession. You say Leschetizky advises his pupils to learn a small portion, two or four measures, each hand alone and away from the piano. Other pianists tell me they have to make a special study of memorizing. All this is not for me—it is not my way. When I have studied the piece sufficiently to play it, I know it—every note of it. When I play a concerto with orchestra I am not only absolutely sure of the piano part, but I also know each note that the other instruments play. Of course I am listening intently to the piano and to the whole orchestra during a performance; if I allowed myself to think of anything else, I should be lost. This absolute concentration is what conquers all difficulties.
ABSTRACT TECHNIC
"About practising technic for itself alone: this will not be necessary when once the principles of technic are mastered. I, at least, do not need to do so. I make, however, various technical exercises out of all difficult passages in pieces. I scarcely need to look at the printed pages of pieces I place on my recital programs. I have them with me, to be sure, but they are seldom taken out of their boxes. What I do is to think the pieces through and do mental work with them, and for this I must be quiet and by myself. An hour's actual playing at the piano each day is sufficient to prepare for a recital.
"It must not be thought that I do not study very seriously. I do not work less than six hours a day; if on any day I fail to secure this amount of time, I make it up at the earliest moment. During the summer months, when I am preparing new programs for the next season, I work very hard. As I said, I take the difficult passages of a composition and make the minutest study of them in every detail, making all kinds of technical exercises out of a knotty section, sometimes playing it in forty or fifty different ways. For example, take the little piece out of Schumann's Carneval, called 'The Reconnaissance.' That needed study. I gave three solid days to it; that means from nine to twelve in the morning, and from one to five in the afternoon. At the end of that time I knew it perfectly and was satisfied with it. From that day to this I have never had to give a thought to that number, for I am confident I know it utterly. I have never had an accident to that or to any of my pieces when playing in public. In my opinion a pianist has a more difficult task to accomplish than any other artist. The singer has to sing only one note at a time; the violinist or 'cellist need use but one hand for notes. Even the orchestral conductor who aspires to direct his men without the score before him, may experience a slip of memory once in awhile, yet he can go on without a break. A pianist, however, has perhaps half a dozen notes in each hand to play at once; every note must be indelibly engraved on the memory, for one dares not make a slip of any kind.
"An artist playing in London, Paris or New York—I class these cities together—may play about the same sort of programs in each. The selections will not be too heavy in character. In Madrid or Vienna the works may be even more brilliant. It is Berlin that demands heavy, solid meat. I play Bach there, Beethoven and Brahms. It is a severe test to play in Berlin and win success.
"I have made several tours in America. This is a wonderful country. I don't believe you Americans realize what a great country you have, what marvelous advantages are here, what fine teachers, what great orchestras, what opera, what audiences! The critics, too, are so well informed and so just. All these things impress a foreign artist—the love for music that is here, the knowledge of it, and the enthusiasm for it. A worthy artist can make a name and success in America more quickly and surely than in any country in the world.
"For one thing America is one united country from coast to coast, so it is much easier getting about here than in Europe. For another thing I consider you have the greatest orchestras in the world, and I have played with the orchestras of all countries. I also find you have the most enthusiastic audiences to be found anywhere.
"In Europe a musical career offers few advantages. People often ask my advice about making a career over there, and I try to dissuade them. It sometimes impresses me as a lions' den, and I have the desire to cry out 'Beware' to those who may be entrapped into going over before they are ready, or know what to expect. Of course there are cases of phenomenal success, but they are exceptions to the general rule.
"People go to Europe to get atmosphere (stimmung)—that much abused term! I could tell them they make their own atmosphere wherever they are. I have lived in music all my life, but I can say I find musical atmosphere right here in America. If I listen to the Boston Symphony Orchestra, or to the Kneisel Quartet, when these organizations are giving an incomparable performance of some masterpiece, I am entirely wrapt up in the music; am I not then in a musical atmosphere? Or if I hear a performance of a Wagner opera at the Metropolitan, where Wagner is given better even than in Bayreuth, am I not also in a musical atmosphere? To be sure, if I am in Bayreuth I may see some reminiscences of Wagner the man, or if I am in Vienna I can visit the graves of Beethoven and Schubert. But these facts of themselves do not create a musical atmosphere.
"You in America can well rejoice over your great country, your fine teachers and musicians and your musical growth. After a while you may be the most musical nation in the world."
XXVIII.
OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH
CHARACTERISTIC TOUCH ON THE PIANO
Arthur Hochman, Russian pianist and composer, once remarked to me, in reference to the quality of tone and variety of tonal effects produced by the various artists now before the public:
"For me there is one pianist who stands above them all—his name is Gabrilowitsch."
The quality of tone which this rare artist draws from his instrument, is unforgettable. I asked him one morning, when he was kind enough to give me the opportunity for a quiet chat, how he produced this luscious singing quality of tone.
"A beautiful tone? Ah, that is difficult to describe, whether in one hour or in many hours. It is first a matter of experiment, of individuality, then of experience and memory. We listen and create the tone, modify it until it expresses our ideal, then we try to remember how we did it.
"I cannot say that I always produce a beautiful tone; I try to produce a characteristic tone, but sometimes it may not be beautiful: there are many times when it may be anything but that. I do not think there can be any fixed rule or method in tone production, because people and hands are so different. What does for one will not do for another. Some players find it easier to play with high wrist, some with low. Some can curve their fingers, while others straighten them out. There are of course a few foundation principles, and one is that arms and wrists must be relaxed. Fingers must often be loose also, but not at the nail joint; that must always be firm. I advise adopting the position of hand which is most comfortable and convenient. In fact all forms of hand position can be used, if for a right purpose, so long as the condition is never cramped or stiff. I permit either a high or low position of the wrist, so long as the tone is good. As I said, the nail joint must remain firm, and never be crushed under by the weight of powerful chords, as is apt to be the case with young players whose hands are weak and delicate.
TO MISS HARRIETTE BROWER, OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH
TECHNICAL STUDY
"Yes, I am certainly in favor of technical practise outside of pieces. There must be scale and arpeggio study, in which the metronome can be used. But I believe in striving to make even technical exercises of musical value. If scales are played they should be performed with a beautiful quality and variety of tone; if one attempts a Czerny étude, it should be played with as much care and finish as a Beethoven sonata. Bring out all the musical qualities of the étude. Do not say, 'I'll play this measure sixteen times, and then I'm done with it.' Do nothing for mechanical ends merely, but everything from a musical standpoint. Yes, I give some Czerny to my students; not many études however. I prefer Chopin and Rubinstein. There is a set of six Rubinstein Studies which I use, including the Staccato Étude.
"In regard to technical forms and material, each player may need a different tonic. I have found many useful things in a work by your own Dr. William Mason, Touch and Technic. I have used this to a considerable extent. To my knowledge he was the first to illustrate the principle of weight, which is now pretty generally accepted here as well as in Europe.
"An ancient and famous philosopher, Seneca, is said to have remarked that by the time a man reaches the age of twenty-five, he should know enough to be his own physician, or he is a fool. We might apply this idea to the pianist. After studying the piano for a number of years he should be able to discover what sort of technical exercises are most beneficial; if he cannot do so he must be a fool. Why should he always depend on the exercises made by others? There is no end to the list of method books and technical forms; their name is legion. They are usually made by persons who invent exercises to fit their own hands; this does not necessarily mean that they will fit the hands of others. I encourage my pupils to invent their own technical exercises. They have often done so with considerable success, and find much more pleasure in them than in those made by others.
"Two of the most important principles in piano playing are: full, round, exact tone; distinct phrasing. The most common fault is indistinctness—slurring over or leaving out notes. Clearness in piano playing is absolutely essential. If an actor essays the rôle of Hamlet, he must first of all speak distinctly and make himself clearly understood; otherwise all his study and characterization are in vain. The pianist must likewise make himself understood; he therefore must enunciate clearly.
VELOCITY
"You speak of velocity as difficult for some players to acquire. I have found there is a general tendency to play everything too fast, to rush headlong through the piece, without taking time to make it clear and intelligible. When the piece is quite clear in tone and phrasing, it will not sound as fast as it really is, because all the parts are in just relation to each other. As an illustration of this fact, there is a little Gavotte of mine, which I had occasion to play several times in Paris. A lady, a very good pianist, got the piece, learned it, then came and asked me to hear her play it. She sat down to the piano, and rushed through the piece in a way that so distorted it I could hardly recognize it. When she finished I remonstrated, but she assured me that her tempo was exactly like mine as she had heard me play the piece three times. I knew my own tempo exactly and showed her that while it did not differ so greatly from hers, yet my playing sounded slower because notes and phrasing were all clear, and everything rightly balanced.
POWER
"How do I gain power? Power does not depend on the size of the hand or arm; for persons of quite small physique have enough of it to play with the necessary effect. Power is a nervous force, and of course demands that arms and wrists be relaxed. The fingers must be so trained as to be strong enough to stand up under this weight of arms and hands, and not give way. I repeat, the nail joint must remain firm under all circumstances. It is so easy to forget this; one must be looking after it all the time.
MEMORIZING
"In regard to memorizing, I have no special rule or method. Committing to memory seems to come of its own accord. Some pieces are comparatively easy to learn by heart; others, like a Bach fugue, require hard work and close analysis. The surest way to learn a difficult composition, is to write it out from memory. There is a great deal of benefit in that. If you want to remember the name of a person or a place, you write it down. When the eye sees it, the mind retains a much more vivid impression. This is visual memory. When I play with orchestra, I of course know every note the orchestra has to play as well as my own part. It is a much greater task to write out a score from memory than a piano solo, yet it is the surest way to fix the composition in mind. I find that compositions I learned in early days are never forgotten, they are always with me, while the later pieces have to be constantly looked after. This is doubtless a general experience, as early impressions are most enduring.
"An orchestral conductor should know the works he conducts so thoroughly that he need not have the score before him. I have done considerable conducting the past few years. Last season I gave a series of historical recitals, tracing the growth of the piano concerto, from Mozart down to the present. I played nineteen works in all, finishing with the Rachmaninoff Concerto."
Mr. Gabrilowitsch has entirely given up teaching, and devotes his time to recital and concert, conducting, and composing.
HANS VON BÜLOW AS TEACHER AND INTERPRETER
Those who heard Hans von Bülow in recital during his American tour, in 1876, listened to piano playing that was at once learned and convincing. A few years before, in 1872, Rubinstein had come and conquered. The torrential splendor of his pianism, his mighty crescendos and whispering diminuendos, his marvelous variety of tone—all were in the nature of a revelation; his personal magnetism carried everything before it. American audiences were at his feet.
HANS VON BÜLOW
In Von Bülow was found a player of quite a different caliber. Clarity of touch, careful exactness down to the minutest detail caused the critics to call him cold. He was a deep thinker and analyzer; as he played one saw, as though reflected in a mirror, each note, phrase and dynamic mark of expression to be found in the work. From a Rubinstein recital the listener came away subdued, awed, inspired, uplifted, but disinclined to open the piano or touch the keys that had been made to burn and scintillate under those wonderful hands. After hearing Von Bülow, on the other hand, the impulse was to hasten to the instrument and reproduce what had just seemed so clear and logical, so simple and attainable. It did not seem to be such a difficult thing to play the piano—like that! It was as though he had said: "Any of you can do what I am doing, if you will give the same amount of time and study to it that I have done. Listen and I will teach you!"
Von Bülow was a profound student of the works of Beethoven; his edition of the sonatas is noted for recondite learning, clearness and exactness in the smallest details. Through his recitals in America he did much to make these works better known and understood. Nor did he neglect Chopin, and though his readings of the music of the great Pole may have lacked in sensuous beauty of touch and tone, their interpretation was always sane, healthy, and beautiful.
Toward the end of a season during the eighties, it was announced that Von Bülow would come to Berlin and teach an artist class in the Klindworth Conservatory. This was an unusual opportunity to obtain lessons from so famous a musician and pedagogue, and about twenty pianists were enrolled for the class. A few of these came with the master from Frankfort, where he was then located.
Carl Klindworth, pianist, teacher, critic, editor of Chopin and Beethoven, was then the Director of the school. The two men were close friends, which is proved by the fact that Von Bülow was willing to recommend the Klindworth Edition of Beethoven, in spite of the fact that he himself had edited many of the sonatas. Another proof is that he was ready to leave his work in Frankfort, and come to Berlin, in order to shed the luster of his name and fame upon the Klindworth school—the youngest of the many musical institutions of that music-ridden, music-saturated capital.
It was a bright May morning when the Director entered the music-room with his guest, and presented him to the class. They saw in him a man rather below medium height, with large intellectual head, beneath whose high, wide forehead shone piercing dark eyes, hidden behind glasses.
He bowed to the class, saying he was pleased to see so many industrious students. His movements, as he looked around the room, were quick and alert; he seemed to see everything at once, and the students saw that nothing could escape that active mentality.
The class met four days in each week, and the lessons continued from nine in the morning until well on toward one o'clock. It was announced that only the works of Brahms, Raff, Mendelssohn and Liszt would be taught and played, so nothing else need be brought to the class; indeed Brahms was to have the place of honor.
While many interesting compositions were discussed and played, perhaps the most helpful thing about these hours spent with the great pedagogue was the running fire of comment and suggestion regarding technic, interpretation, and music and musicians in general. Von Bülow spoke in rapid, nervous fashion, with a mixture of German and English, often repeating in the latter tongue what he had said in the former, out of consideration for the Americans and English present.
In teaching, Von Bülow required the same qualities which were so patent in his playing. Clearness of touch, exactness in phrasing and fingering were the first requirements; the delivery of the composer's idea must be just as he had indicated it—no liberties with the text were ever permitted. He was so honest, so upright in his attitude toward the makers of good music, that it was a sin in his eyes to alter anything in the score, though he believed in adding any marks of phrasing or expression which would elucidate the intentions of the composer. Everything he said or did showed his intellectual grasp of the subject; and he looked for some of the same sort of intelligence on the part of the student. A failure in this respect, an inability to apprehend at once the ideas he endeavored to convey, would annoy the sensitive and nervous little Doctor; he would become impatient, sarcastic and begin to pace the floor with hasty strides. When in this state he could see little that was worthy in the student's performance, for a small error would be so magnified as to dwarf everything that was excellent. When the lion began to roar, it behooved the players to be circumspect and meek. At other times, when the weather was fair in the class-room, things went with tolerable smoothness. He did not trouble himself much about technic, as of course a pupil coming to him was expected to be well equipped on the technical side; his chief concern was to make clear the content and interpretation of the composition. In the lessons he often played detached phrases and passages for and with the student, but never played an entire composition.
One of the most remarkable things about this eccentric man was his prodigious memory. Nearly every work for piano which could be mentioned he knew and could play from memory. He often expressed the opinion that no pianist could be considered an artist unless he or she could play at least two hundred pieces by heart. He, of course, more than fulfilled this requirement, not only for piano but for orchestral music. As conductor of the famous Meiningen orchestra, he directed every work given without a note of score before him—considered a great feat in those days. He was a ceaseless worker, and his eminence in the world of music was more largely due to unremitting labor than to genius.
From the many suggestions to the Berlin class, the following have been culled.
"To play correctly is of the first importance; to play beautifully is the second requirement. A healthy touch is the main thing. Some people play the piano as if their fingers had migrane and their wrists were rheumatic. Do not play on the sides of the finger nor with a sideways stroke, for then the touch will be weak and uncertain.
"Clearness we must first have; every line and measure, every note must be analyzed for touch, tone, content and expression.
"You are always your first hearer; to be one's own critic is the most difficult of all.
"When a new theme enters you must make it plain to the listener; all the features of the new theme, the new figure, must be plastically brought out.
"Brilliancy does not depend on velocity but on clarity. What is not clear cannot scintillate nor sparkle. Make use of your strongest fingers in brilliant passages, leaving out the fourth when possible. A scale to be brilliant and powerful must not be too rapid. Every note must be round and full and not too legato—rather a mezzo legato—so that single tones, played hands together, shall sound like octaves. One of the most difficult things in rhythm, is to play passages where two notes alternate with triplets. Scales may be practised in this way alternating three notes with two.
"We must make things sound well—agreeably, in a way to be admired. A seemingly discordant passage can be made to sound well by ingeniously seeking out the best that is in it and holding that up in the most favorable light. Practise dissonant chords until they please the ear in spite of their sharpness. Think of the instruments of the orchestra and their different qualities of tone, and try to imitate them on the piano. Think of every octave on the piano as having a different color; then shade and color your playing. (Also bitte coloriren)!"
If Bülow's musical trinity, Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms, had a fourth divinity added, it would surely have been Liszt. The first day's program contained chiefly works by the Hungarian master; among them Au bord d'une Source, Scherzo and March, and the Ballades. The player who rendered the Scherzo was advised to practise octaves with light, flexible wrist; the Kullak Octave School was recommended, especially the third book; the other books could be read through, practising whatever seemed difficult and passing over what was easy. Of the Ballades the first was termed more popular, the second finer and more earnest—though neither makes very much noise.
The Annees de Pelerinage received much attention. Among the pieces played were, Les Cloches, Chasse Neige, Eclogue, Cloches de Geneva, Eroica, Feux Follets and Mazeppa. Also the big Polonaise in E, the two Études, Waldesrauschen and Gnomenreigen; the Mazourka, Valse Impromptu, and the first Étude, of which last he remarked: "You can all play this; thirty years have passed since it was composed and people are only just finding out how fine it is. Such is the case with many of Liszt's works. We wonder how they ever could have been considered unmusical. Yet the way some people play Liszt the hearer is forced to exclaim, 'What an unmusical fellow Liszt was, to be sure, to write like that!'
"Exactness in everything is of the greatest importance," he was fond of saying. "We must make the piano speak. As in speaking we use a separate movement of the lips for each word, so in certain kinds of melody playing, the hand is taken up after each note. Then, too, we cannot make the piano speak without very careful use of the pedals."
The Mazourka of Liszt was recommended as one of the most delightful of his lighter pieces. The Waldesrauschen also, was termed charming, an excellent concert number. "Begin the first figure somewhat louder and slightly slower, then increase the movement and subdue the tone. Everything which is to be played softly should be practised forte."
Of Joachim Raff the Suite Op. 91 held the most important place. Each number received minute attention, the Giga being played by Ethelbert Nevin. The Metamorphosen received a hearing, also the Valse Caprice, Op. 116, of which the master was particular about the staccato left hand against the legato right. Then came the Scherzo Op. 74, the Valse Caprice and the Polka, from Suite Op. 71. Von Bülow described the little group of notes in left hand of middle section as a place where the dancers made an unexpected slip on the floor, and suggested it be somewhat emphasized. "We must make this little witticism," he said, as he illustrated the passage at the piano.
"Raff showed himself a pupil of Mendelssohn in his earlier compositions; his symphonies will find more appreciation in the coming century—which cannot be said of the Ocean Symphony, for instance."
Of Mendelssohn the Capriccios Op. 5 and 22 were played, also the Prelude and Fugue in E. Von Bülow deplored the neglect which was overtaking the works of Mendelssohn, and spoke of the many beauties of his piano compositions. "There should be no sentimentality about the playing of Mendelssohn's music," he said; "the notes speak for themselves.
"The return to a theme, in every song or instrumental work of his is particularly to be noticed, for it is always interesting; this Fugue in E should begin as though with the softest register of the organ."
The subject of Brahms has been deferred only that it may be spoken of as a whole. His music was the theme of the second, and a number of the following lessons. Bülow was a close friend of the Hamburg master, and kept in touch with him while in Berlin. One morning he came in with a beaming face, holding up a sheet of music paper in Beethoven's handwriting, which Brahms had discovered and forwarded to him. It seemed that nothing could have given Bülow greater pleasure than to receive this relic.