X.
KATHARINE GOODSON
AN ARTIST AT HOME
When one has frequently listened to a favorite pianist in the concert room, and has studied impersonally, so to speak, the effects of touch, tone and interpretation produced during a recital, it is a satisfaction and delight to come into personal touch with the artist in the inner circle of the home; to be able to speak face to face with one who has charmed thousands from the platform, and to discuss freely the points which impress one when listening to a public performance.
Katharine Goodson
It has been my recent privilege thus to come into intimate touch with the artist pair, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Hinton, the latter being known all over the world as Katharine Goodson. They have a quiet, beautiful home in London—a true artist's home. One feels at once on entering and enjoying its hospitality, that here at least is one instance where two musicians have perfect harmony in the home life. Mr. Hinton, as is widely known, is a composer and also a violinist and pianist. The beautiful music-room, which has been added to one side of the house and leads into the garden, contains two grand pianos on its raised platform. This music-room is Miss Goodson's own sanctum and workroom, and here piano concertos, with orchestral accompaniment supplied on the second piano, can be studied ad infinitum. Mr. Hinton has his own studio at the top of the house.
The garden music-room is lighted at one end by a great arched window, so placed that the trees of the garden are seen through its panes. It is easy to imagine one's self in some lovely sylvan retreat—which is indeed true! All the appointments of this room, and indeed of the whole house, every article of furniture and each touch of color, betoken the artistic sense for fitness and harmony. Miss Goodson has a keen and exquisite sense for harmony in colors as well as for color in the harmonies she brings from her instrument.
"My coming tour will be the fifth I have made in America," she said. "I enjoy playing in your country immensely; the cities of New York, Boston, Chicago, and Philadelphia are the most appreciative in the world. It is true we have masses of concerts in London, but few of them are really well attended and people are not so thoroughly acquainted with piano music as you are in America. And you are so appreciative of the best—even in the smaller cities.
"I can recall a recital which I gave in a city of not more than forty thousand, in the West. The recital was arranged by a musical club; they asked for the program some time in advance, studied it up and thus knew every piece I was to play. There was an enormous audience, for people came from all the country round. I remember three little elderly ladies who greeted me after the recital; in parting they said, 'You will see us to-morrow,' I thought it over afterward and wondered what they meant, for I was to play at a place many miles from there the next night. What was my surprise to be greeted by the same ladles the following evening. 'You see, we are here; we told you we would come.' Fancy taking a trip from London to Edinburgh just to hear a concert! For it was a journey like that. Such incidents show the enthusiasm in America for music—and for piano music.
"I hope to play both the Brahms and Paderewski concertos in America. To me the latter is a beautiful work—the slow movement is exquisite. I have as yet scarcely done anything with the composition, for I have been on a long tour through Norway, Sweden, and Finland. It was most inspiring to play for these people; they want me to come back to them now, but I cannot do so, nor can I go next season, but after that I shall go. I returned home greatly in need of rest. I shall now begin work in earnest, however, as summer is really the only time I have for study throughout the year. I shall have six full weeks now before we take our usual holiday in the Grindelwald. On the way there we shall stop at Morges and visit Paderewski, and then I will go over the concerto with him and get his ideas as to interpretation.
MEMORIZING BY ANALYSIS
"You ask how I memorize. First I go over the work several times to get a general idea of the whole. Then I analyze it, for I feel it absolutely necessary to know keys, chords, and construction. A work should be so well understood along these lines that it can be played in another key as well as in the one in which it is written. For the actual memorizing of the piece I generally do it phrase by phrase, not always 'each hand alone,' though occasionally I do this also. I remember learning the Bach A minor Prelude and Fugue in this way. If I were now asked to play any measure or passage in any part of it I could do so; it is mine forever, never to be forgotten."
Asked about the different ways of teaching the Leschetizky method by various teachers, Miss Goodson said:
"As we all know, people claim to understand and teach the Leschetizky principles who are not competent to do so. I do not recall, for instance, that the professor requires the tips of the fingers to form a straight line on the edge of the keys. I myself have never done this. I believe in a perfectly easy and natural position of hand at the keyboard. When this is the case the finger-tips form a curve, the middle fingers being placed a little farther in on the keys than is natural for the first and fifth. Of course the hand takes an arched position and the joints nearest the tip of the fingers must be firm; there should be no wavering nor giving in there. The whole arm, of course, is relaxed, and swings easily from the shoulder.
A PIANO HAND
"I have, as you say, a good hand for the piano; much depends on that; I have always had a good deal of what is called a natural technic. Thus when I am obliged to forego practising I do not lose my facility; an hour's work puts the hand in condition again. What do I do to accomplish this? Different things. First some finger movements, perhaps with fingers in an extended chord position; then some scales and arpeggios; then a Chopin étude, and so on. When practising regularly, I do not generally work at the piano more than four hours a day; it seems to me that amount is sufficient, if used with absolute concentration."
Later we adjourned to the pretty garden back of the music-room, and here we were joined by a beautiful gray Angora cat, the pet and pride of his mistress, and a very important personage indeed. He has a trick of climbing to Miss Goodson's shoulder, from which point of vantage he surveys the world about him with all the complaisance of which an animal of such high degree is capable.
XI.
MARK HAMBOURG
FORM, TECHNIC, AND EXPRESSION
MARK HAMBOURG
In one of the most quiet, secluded quarters of London can be found the home of the Russian pianist, Mark Hambourg. Mr. Hambourg lives on a terrace, "far from the madding crowd," and difficult enough of access to keep mere curiosity seekers at a distance. One can scarcely picture to one's self, without an actual sight of them, the quaint charm of these short passages or streets, usually termed "terraces," or "gardens." This particular terrace looks out on a restful green park, where luxuriant trees make long shadows on the sunlit turf. The house is large and comfortable—built over a hundred years ago; its rooms are spacious, and the drawing-room and library, which lead one into the other, form a fine music salon. Surely, amid such surroundings, with priceless pictures and objets d'art all about, with exquisite colors, with space and quiet, an artist must find an ideal spot for both work and play. I expressed this thought to Mr. Hambourg when he entered; then we soon fell to discussing the necessary equipment of the teacher and pianist.
"I agree with you," he said, "that it is the beginning of piano study which is the most difficult of all; this is where the teacher has such great responsibility and where so many teachers are so incompetent. Perhaps there are more poor teachers for the piano than for the voice. The organs of voice production cannot be seen, they can only be guessed at; so there may be a little more excuse for the vocal teacher; but for the piano we have the keys and the fingers. It should not therefore be such a very difficult thing to learn to play intelligently and correctly! Yet few seem to have got hold of the right principles or know how to impart them."
"I have heard a number of the young pianists here," I remarked, "and they all play with very little finger action—with fingers close to the keys. Do you advocate this?"
LOW HAND POSITION
"Do not forget that for centuries England has been a country of organists; without doubt organ playing has had some effect on the piano touch. Some schools of piano playing advise lifting the fingers high above the keys, with a view to producing greater power; but I think the tone thus produced is often of a somewhat harsh and disagreeable quality. Then, too, high lifting interferes with smoothness and velocity. For myself I advocate keeping the fingers close to the keyboard, and pressing the keys, which gives the tone a warmer and more elastic quality."
"A point in hand position I should like to ask you about. Some teachers advise placing the finger-tips close to the edge of the keys, forming a straight line with them; it seems to me such a position is forced and unnatural."
Mr. Hambourg smiled assent.
"I do not advocate anything forced and unnatural," he answered. "So many people think that a beautiful touch is 'born, not made,' but I do not agree with them. One can acquire, I am sure, a fine piano touch with the proper study. The principal requirement is, first of all, a loose wrist. This point seems simple enough, but it is a point not sufficiently considered nor understood. No matter how much the player may feel the meaning of the music, he cannot express this meaning with stiff wrists and arms. Some people have a natural flexibility, and to such the securing of a musical tone presents far less difficulty; but with time, patience, and thought, I fully believe all can arrive at this goal.
AMOUNT OF PRACTISE
"In regard to practise I do not think it wise for the aspiring pianist to spend such a great amount of time at the piano. Four hours of concentrated work daily seems to me sufficient. Of course it is the quality of practise that counts. The old saying, 'Practise makes perfect,' does not mean constant repetition merely, but constant thinking and listening. I advise students to stop after playing a passage several times, and think over what the notes mean. This pause will rest ears and hands; in a few moments work can be resumed with fresh vigor.
"I have been so frequently asked to write on the subject of technic that I have done so in a few articles which have been printed in a small booklet. From these you may see what my ideas are on these points. I do very little teaching myself—just a few talented pupils; they must be something out of the ordinary. You see, I do not live in London continuously; I am here only about four months of the year; the rest of the time is spent traveling all over the world. Only that small part of the year when I am stationary can I do any solid work. Here it is generally quiet enough: the Zoological Garden is not far away, however, and sometimes I have the roaring of the lions as an accompaniment to my piano.
"I am always increasing my repertoire, though I find the public does not care for new things; it prefers the old. It may listen to the new if forced to, but it will not attend a recital unless various familiar things are on the program.
"I have made several tours in America. The rush of travel from place to place over there, is fatiguing, but I feel that your people are very appreciative. You demand the best, and concert giving in America is so costly that a manager can afford to exploit only the highest artists. Here in London, where the expense is only about two hundred dollars, say, to get up a recital, almost any one can scrape together that sum and bring himself or herself before the public. In America the outlay is four or five times greater. No wonder that only a very good artist can take the risk."
On leaving, Mr. Hambourg took us to another room, where he showed us with much satisfaction, a very valuable painting of the old Italian school, by Ghirlandajo, of which he is very fond.
XII.
TOBIAS MATTHAY
WATCHING THE ARTIST TEACHER AT WORK
One of the first things accomplished after my arrival in London was to seek out Tobias Matthay, the composer and teacher, for an echo of his fame had reached me across the water.
Matthay has done much to make the principles of piano technic so clear and simple that even a child can understand them. If he has stated facts in a way which seems to some revolutionary it is because these facts are seldom understood by the rank and file of piano teachers. The work he has done has compelled attention and admiration; his ideas are now accepted as undeniable truths by those who at first repudiated them. The writings of Mr. Matthay will doubtless be better known in America a little later on than they are at present. They consist in part of an exhaustive work on The Act of Touch in all its Diversity; First Principles of Piano Playing; Relaxation Studies; The Child's First Steps in Piano Playing; The Principles of Fingering and Laws of Pedaling; Forearm Rotation Principle; and, in press, The Principles of Teaching Interpretation. These very titles are inspiring and suggestive, and show Matthay to be a deep thinker along educational lines.
Cordially Yours, Tobias Matthay
Matthay's activities are enormous. He is professor of advanced piano playing at the Royal Academy of Music; also founder and head of his own school of piano playing. So occupied early and late is he, that it is almost impossible to get a word with him. I was fortunate enough, however, to obtain an hour's audience, and also permission to attend various private classes at the Royal Academy, and hear a number of pupils in recital.
In appearance Matthay is a striking personality. His head and features recall pictures of Robert Louis Stevenson. His tall, muscular form has the stoop of the scholar; and little wonder when one remembers he must sit in his chair at work day in and day out. His somewhat brusk manner melts into kind amiability when discussing the topics in which he is vitally interested. In his intercourse with students he is ever kind, sympathetic and encouraging. They, on their part, treat him with profound respect.
Matthay believes, and rightly, that the beginning pupil should learn essentials of note values, rhythm, time, ear-training and so on, before attempting to play anything at the piano. When first taken to the instrument, its mechanism is carefully explained to the learner, and what he must do to make a really musical tone. He says (Child's First Steps): "Before you take the very first step in tone production, be sure to understand that you must never touch the piano without trying to make music. It is only too easy to sound notes without making music at all. To make music we must make all the sounds mean something, just as it is no use to pretend to speak unless the sounds we make with our lips mean something, that is unless they form reasoned phrases and sentences."
Here nothing is left vague. Matthay shows clearly how all musical Form and Shape imply Movement and Progression: the movement of a phrase toward its cadence; the movement of a group of notes toward a beat or pulse ahead, or the movement of a whole piece toward its climax, etc. This original view of his regarding form, which he has advocated for the last twenty years, is now being accepted generally by the more up-to-date of the English theorists and teachers.
In regard to key mechanism and what must be done to produce all varieties of touch and tone, Matthay has made exhaustive studies. He says (First Principles of Piano Playing): "The two chief rules of technic, as regards the key, are, therefore: Always feel how much the key resists you: feel how much the key wants for every note. Second, Always listen for the moment each sound begins, so that you may learn to direct your effort to the sound only, and not to the key bed. You must never hit a key down, nor hit at it. The finger-tip may fall on the key, and in gently reaching the key you may follow up such fall by acting against the key. This action against the key must be for the sole purpose of making it move—in one of the many ways which each give us quite a different kind of sound. And you must always direct such action to the point in key descent where the sound begins."
I quote also this little summary from the same work:
"(a) It is only by making the hammer-end of the key move that you can make a sound. (b) The swifter the movement the louder the sound. (c) The more gradual this swiftness is obtained the more beautiful the quality of sound. (d) For brilliant tone you may hit the string by means of the key, but do not, by mistake, hit the key instead. (e) You must 'aim' the key to the beginning of each sound, because the hammer falls off the string as you hear that beginning, and it is too late then to influence the sound except its continuance. (f) It is wrong to squeeze the key beds, because it prevents tone, impairs musical result, impedes agility, and is, besides, fatiguing. (g) You must feel the 'giving way point' of the key, so that you may be able to tell how much force is required for each note. Never, therefore, really hit the keys."
Mr. Matthay as minutely gives directions as to the muscular problems of touch and technique. For instance, he explains how all varieties of tone, good and bad, are caused, all inflections of Duration, and the laws which govern the attainment of Agility and ease of Technique; and also explains the nature of incorrect muscular actions which prevent the attainment of all these things. He shows where the released arm weight should be applied, and again, where it should be eliminated; makes clear the two opposite forms of technic implied by "flat" and "bent" finger actions, and he goes exhaustively into the little-understood question of forearm rotary exertions, the correct application of which he proves to be necessary for every note we play.
In speaking of methods in piano teaching, Mr. Matthay said to me:
"I can say I have no method of playing, and moreover I have not much faith in people who have. My teachings merely show how all playing, good or bad, is accomplished. There are certain principles, however, which every player should know, but which, I am sorry to say, are as yet scarcely apprehended even by the best teachers. The great pianists have experimented till they have hit upon effects which they can repeat if all conditions are favorable, and they are in the mood. As a rule they do not know the laws underlying these effects. You may ask the greatest pianists, for example, how to play octaves. 'Oh, I play them thus'—illustrating. Just what to do to attain this result they cannot explain. In my own case I have done much experimenting, but always with the view to discovering how things are done—the facts and laws governing actual tone production and interpretation. I made a study of Rubinstein's playing, for I found he played a great deal better than I did. So I discovered many things in listening to him, which he perhaps could not have explained to me. These facts are incontrovertible and I have brought many of my colleagues to see the truth of them. More than this, I have brought many even of my older colleagues who had a life-time of wrong mental habits to impede them, to realize the truth of my teachings.
"The work of a teacher should speak for itself. For my own part I never advertise, for I can point to hundreds of pupils—this is no exaggeration in the least!—who are constantly before the public, as concert pianists and successful teachers.
"If there is one thing that rouses me deeply, it is the incompetence of so many teachers of piano. They say to the pupil: 'You play badly, you must play better'; but they do not tell the pupil how to play better. They give doses of études, sonatas and pieces, yet never get at the heart of the matter at all. It is even worse than the fake singing teachers; I feel like saying it is damnable!"
It was my privilege to be present at some of Mr. Matthay's private lessons, given at the Royal Academy. Several young men were to try for one of the medals, and were playing the same piece, one of the Strauss-Tausig Valse Caprices.
Matthay listens to a complete performance of the work in hand, then turns back to the beginning and goes over it again for corrections and suggestions. He enters into it with absolute devotion, directing with movements of head and hands as a conductor might direct an orchestra; sometimes he dashes down a chord in the treble to urge more force; at other times lays a restraining hand on the player's arm, where the tone should be softer. His blue pencil is often busy adding phrasing marks. In the pauses he talks over with the pupil the character of the piece, and the effects he thinks should be made. In short his lessons are most helpful and illuminating.
I also had the opportunity to attend a pupils' "Practise Concert," and here the results attained were little short of marvelous. Small children, both boys and girls, played difficult pieces, like the Grieg Variations for two pianos, the Weber Invitation to the Dance, and works by Chopin and Liszt, with accuracy and fluency. Almost every selection was played from memory. The tone was always musical and often of much power, and the pupils seemed thoroughly to understand what they were doing and the meaning of the music. They certainly exemplified the professor's maxim:
"Never touch the piano without trying to make music."
Not long afterward I received a copy of the new book, which had just come from the press. Its comprehensive title is Musical Interpretation, its Laws and Principles, and their Application in Teaching and Performing. The material was first presented in the form of lectures; on repeated requests it has been issued in book form. The author at the outset claims no attempt to treat such a complex problem exhaustively; he has, however, selected the following seven points for elucidation:
1. The difference between Practise and Strumming.
2. The difference between Teaching and Cramming.
3. How one's mind can be brought to bear on one's work.
4. Correct ideas of Time and Shape.
5. Elements of Rubato and its application.
6. Elements of Duration and Pedaling and their
application.
7. Some details as to the application of the Element of
Tone-variety.
Such themes must cause the thoughtful reader to pause and think. They are treated with illuminating originality. The great aim of the teacher must ever be to awaken thought along correct lines; the pupil must be assisted to concentrate his thought on what he is doing: to constantly think and listen. Teaching does not consist merely in pointing out faults; the teacher must make clear the cause of each fault and the way to correct it. That section of the book devoted to the Element of Rubato, is illustrated with many examples from well-known compositions, by which the principle is explained. He shows how frequently this principle is misunderstood by the inexperienced, who seem to think that rubato means breaking the time; whereas true rubato is the bending of the time, but not breaking it. If we give extra time to certain notes, we must take some time from other notes, in order to even things up.
The subject of Pedaling is aptly explained by means of numerous illustrations. The author deplores the misuse of the damper pedal, which can be made to ruin all the care and effort bestowed on phrasing and tonal effects by the fingers. The fault can, in most cases, be traced to inattention to the sounds coming from the piano.
There are quotable paragraphs on every page, which in their sincerity and earnestness, their originality of expression, stamp themselves on the reader's imagination. Every teacher who is serious in his work and has the best interests of his pupils at heart, should read and ponder these pages.
XIII.
HAROLD BAUER
THE QUESTION OF PIANO TONE
Buried deep in the heart of old Paris, in one of the narrow, busy thoroughfares of the city, stands the ancient house in which the master pianist, Harold Bauer, has made a home.
One who is unfamiliar with Paris would never imagine that behind those rows of uninviting buildings lining the noisy, commercial street, there lived people of refined and artistic tastes. All the entrances to the buildings look very much alike—they seem to be mere slits in the walls. I stopped before one of the openings, entered and crossed a paved courtyard, climbed a winding stone stairway, rang at a plain wooden doorway, and was ushered into the artist's abode. Once within, I hardly dared to speak, lest what I saw might vanish away, as with the wave of a fairy's wand. Was I not a moment before down in that dusty, squalid street, and here I am now in a beautiful room whose appointments are all of quiet elegance—costly but in exquisite taste, and where absolute peace and quiet reign. The wide windows open upon a lovely green garden, which adds the final touch of restful repose to the whole picture.
Mr. Bauer was giving a lesson in the music salon beyond, from which issued, now and again, echoes of well-beloved themes from a Chopin sonata. When the lesson was over he came out to me.
"Yes, this is one of the old houses, of the sort that are fast passing away in Paris," he said, answering my remark; "there are comparatively few of them left. This building is doubtless at least three hundred years old. In this quarter of the city—in the rue de Bac, for instance—you may find old, forbidding looking buildings, that within are magnificent—perfect palaces; at the back of them, perhaps, will be a splendid garden; but the whole thing is so hidden away that even the very existence of such grandeur and beauty would never be suspected from without."
He then led the way to the music-room, where we had an hour's talk.
HAROLD BAUER
"I was thinking as I drove down here," I began, "what the trend of our talk might be, for you have already spoken on so many subjects for publication. It occurred to me to ask how you yourself secure a beautiful tone on the piano, and how you teach others to make it?"
Mr. Bauer thought an instant.
"I am not sure that I do make it; in fact I do not believe in a single beautiful tone on the piano. Tone on the piano can only be beautiful in the right place—that is, in relation to other tones. You or I, or the man in the street, who knows nothing about music, may each touch a piano key, and that key will sound the same, whoever moves it, from the nature of the instrument. A beautiful tone may result when two or more notes are played successively, through their difference of intensity, which gives variety. A straight, even tone is monotonous—a dead tone. Variety is life. We see this fact exemplified even in the speaking voice; if one speaks or reads in an even tone it is deadly monotonous.
VARIETY OF TONE
"Now the singer or the violinist can make a single tone on his instrument beautiful through variety; for it is impossible for him to make even one tone which does not have shades of variation in it, however slight they may be, which render it expressive. But you cannot do this on the piano: you cannot color a single tone; but you can do this with a succession of tones, through their difference, through their relation to each other. On the other hand you may say any tone is beautiful if in the right place, no matter how harsh it may be. The singer's voice may break from emotion, or simulated emotion, in an impassioned phrase. The exact note on which it breaks may not be a beautiful one, it may even be very discordant, but we do not think of that, for we are moved by the meaning back of the tones. So on the piano there may be one note in a phrase which, if heard alone, would sound harsh and unpleasant, but in its relation to other tones it sounds beautiful, for it gives the right meaning and effect. Thus it is the relation of tones which results in a 'beautiful tone' on the piano.
"The frequent trouble is that piano teachers and players generally do not understand their instrument. A singer understands his, a violinist, flutist or drummer knows his, but not a pianist. As he only has keys to put down and they are right under his hand, he does not bother himself further. To obviate this difficulty, for those who come to me, I have had this complete model of piano-key mechanism made. You see I can touch the key in a variety of ways, and the results will be different each time. It is necessary for the pianist to look into his instrument, learn its construction, and know what happens inside when he touches a key.
"As you say, there are a great many methods of teaching the piano, but to my mind they are apt to be long, laborious, and do not reach the vital points. The pianist may arrive at these after long years of study and experimenting, but much of his time will be wasted in useless labor.
"In my own case, I was forced by necessity to make headway quickly. I came to Paris years ago as a violinist, but there seemed no opening for me then in that direction. There was opportunity, however, for ensemble work with a good violinist and 'cellist. So I set to work to acquire facility on the piano as quickly as possible. I consulted all the pianists I knew—and I knew quite a number—as to what to do. They told me I must spend many months on technic alone before I could hope to play respectably, but I told them I had no time for that. So I went to work to study out the effects I needed. It didn't matter to me how my hand looked on the keyboard; whether my fingers were curved, flat, or stood on end. I was soon able to get my effects and to convince others that they were the effects I wanted. Later on, when I had more leisure, I took more thought about the position of hand and fingers. But I am convinced that much time is spent uselessly on externals, which do not reach the heart of the matter.
"For instance, players struggle for years to acquire a perfectly even scale. Now I don't believe in that at all. I don't believe a scale ever should be even, either in tone or in rhythm. The beginner's untrained efforts at a scale sound like this"—the speaker illustrated at the piano with a scale in which all the tones were blurred and run into each other; then he continued, "After a year's so-called 'correct training,' his scale sounds like this"—again he illustrated, playing a succession of notes with one finger, each tone standing out by itself. "To my thinking such teaching is not only erroneous, it is positively poisonous—yes, poisonous!"
"Is it to be inferred that you do not approve of scale practise?"
"Oh, I advise scale playing surely, for facility in passing the thumb under and the hand over is very necessary. I do not, however, desire the even, monotonous scale, but one that is full of variety and life.
"In regard to interpretation, it should be full of tonal and rhythmic modifications. Briefly it may be said that expression may be exemplified in four ways: loud, soft, fast, and slow. But within these crude divisions what infinite shades and gradations may be made! Then the personal equation also comes in. Variety and differentiation are of supreme importance—they are life!
"I go to America next season, and after that to Australia; this will keep me away from my Paris home for a long time to come. I should like to give you a picture to illustrate this little talk. Here is a new one which was taken right here in this room, as I sat at the piano, with the strong sunlight pouring in at the big window at my left."
On a subsequent occasion, Mr. Bauer spoke further on some phases of his art.
"As you already know I do not believe in so-called 'piano technic,' which must be practised laboriously outside of pieces. I do not believe in spending a lot of time in such practise, for I feel it is time wasted and leads nowhere. I do not believe, for instance, in the struggle to play a perfectly even scale. A scale should never be 'even,' for it must be full of variety and life. A perfectly even scale is on a dead level; it has no life; it is machine-made. The only sense in which the word 'even' may be applied to a scale is for its rhythmic quality; but even in this sense a beautiful scale has slight variations, so that it is never absolutely regular, either in tone or rhythm.
"Then I do not believe in taking up a new composition and working at the technical side of it first. I study it in the first place from the musical side. I see what may be the meaning of the music, what ideas it seeks to convey, what was in the composer's mind when he wrote it. In other words, I get a good general idea of the composition as a whole; when I have this I can begin to work out the details.
"In this connection I was interested in reading a statement made by Ruskin in his Modern Painters. The statement, which, I think, has never been refuted, is that while the great Italian painters, Raphael, Coreggio, and the rest have left many immature and imperfect pictures and studies in color, their drawings are mature and finished, showing that they made many experiments and studies in color before they thought of making the finished black and white drawing. It seems they put the art thought first before the technical detail. This is the way I feel and the way I work.
AVOID RESTRICTING RULES
"Because our ancestors were brought up to study the piano a certain way, and we—some of us—have been trained along the same rigid lines, does not mean there are no better, broader, less limited ways of reaching the goal we seek. We do not want to limit ourselves or our powers. We do not need to say: 'Now I have thought out the conception of this composition to my present satisfaction; I shall always play it the same way.' How can we feel thus? It binds us at once with iron shackles. How can I play the piece twice exactly alike? I am a different man to-day from what I was yesterday, and shall be different to-morrow from what I am to-day. Each day is a new world, a new life. Don't you see how impossible it is to give two performances of the piece which shall be identical in every particular? It is possible for a machine to make any number of repetitions which are alike, but a human, with active thought and emotion, has a broader outlook.
"The question as to whether the performer must have experienced every emotion he interprets is as old as antiquity. You remember in the Dialogues of Plato, Socrates was discussing with another sage the point as to whether an actor must have felt every emotion he portrayed in order to be a true artist. The discussion waxed warm on both sides. Socrates' final argument was, If the true artist must have lived through every experience in order to portray it faithfully, then, if he had to act a death scene he would have to die first in order to picture it with adequate fidelity!"
THE QUESTION OF VELOCITY
In speaking of velocity in piano playing and how it is to be acquired, Mr. Bauer continued:
"I believe the quality of velocity is inherent—an integral part of one's thought. Even a child, if he has this inherent quality, can play a simple figure of five notes as fast as they need to be played. People of the South—not on this side of the water—but of Spain and Italy, are accustomed to move quickly; they gesticulate with their hands and are full of life and energy. It is no trouble for them to think with velocity. Two people will set out to walk to a given point; they may both walk fast, according to their idea of that word, but one will cover the ground much more quickly than the other. I think this idea of a time unit is again a limiting idea. There can be no fixed and fast rule as to the tempo of a composition; we cannot be bound by such rules. The main thing is: Do I understand the meaning and spirit of the composition, and can I make these clear to others? Can I so project this piece that the picture is alive? If so, the fact as to whether it is a few shades slower or faster does not enter into the question at all.
OBTAINING POWER
"Many players totally mistake in what power consists. They think they must exert great strength in order to acquire sufficient power. Many women students have this idea; they do not realize that power comes from contrast. This is the secret of the effect of power. I do not mean to say that we must not play with all the force we have at times; we even have to pound and bang occasionally to produce the needed effects. This only proves again that a tone may be beautiful, though in itself harsh, if this harshness comes in the right time and place.
"As with velocity so with power; there is no fixed and infallible rule in regard to it, for that would only be another limitation to the feeling, the poetry, the emotion of the executant's thought. The quality and degree of power are due to contrast, and the choice of the degree to be used lies with the player's understanding of the content of the piece and his ability to bring out this content and place it in all its perfection and beauty before the listener. This is his opportunity to bring out the higher, the spiritual meaning."
XIV.
A VISIT TO RAOUL PUGNO
TRAINING THE CHILD
"An audience has been arranged for you to-day, with M. Raoul Pugno; he will await you at four o'clock, in his Paris studio." Thus wrote the courteous representative of Musical America in Paris.
It had been very difficult to make appointments with any of the famous French musicians, owing to their being otherwise engaged, or out of the city. I therefore welcomed this opportunity for meeting at least one of the great pianists of France.
At the appointed hour that afternoon, we drove through the busy rue de Clicy, and halted at the number which had been indicated. It proved to be one of those unpromising French apartment buildings, which present, to the passer-by, a stern façade of flat wall, broken by rows of shuttered windows, which give no hint of what may be hidden behind them. In this case we did not find the man we sought in the front portion of the building, but were directed to cross a large, square court. The house was built around this court, as was the custom in constructing the older sort of dwellings.
At last we discovered the right door, which was opened by a neat housekeeper.
"M. Pugno is not here, he lives in the country," she said, in answer to our inquiry. (How difficult these French musicians are to find; they seem to be one and all "in the country"!)
"But, madame, we have an appointment with M. Pugno; will you not be good enough to see if he is not here after all?"
She left us standing, but returned almost immediately with the message that M. Pugno had only that moment entered his studio, to which she would conduct us.
RAOUL PUGNO
In another moment we had crossed the tiny foyer and were standing within the artist's sanctuary. At first glance one felt as though in an Oriental chamber of some Eastern monarch. Heavy gold and silver Turkish embroideries hung over doors and windows. The walls were covered with many rare paintings; rich objets d'art were scattered about in profusion; an open door led out into a pretty garden, where flowers bloomed, and a fountain dripped into its marble basin. A raised dais at one side of the room held a divan, over which were draperies of Oriental stuffs. On this divan, as on a throne, sat the great pianist we had come to see. He made a stately and imposing figure as he sat there, with his long silvery beard and his dignified bearing. Near him sat a pretty young woman, whom we soon learned was Mlle. Nadia Boulanger, a composer and musician of brilliant attainments.
"I regret that I am unable to converse with you in English, as I speak no language but my own," began M. Pugno, with a courteous wave of the hand for us to be seated.
"You wish to know some of my ideas on piano playing—or rather on teaching. I believe a child can begin to study the piano at a very early age, if he show any aptitude for it; indeed the sooner he begins the better, for then he will get over some of the drudgery by the time he is old enough to understand a little about music.
TRAINING THE CHILD
"Great care must be taken with the health of the child who has some talent for music, so that he shall not overdo in his piano study. After all a robust physical condition is of the first importance, for without it one can do little.
"A child in good health can begin as early as five or six years. He must be most judiciously trained from the start. As the ear is of such prime importance in music, great attention should be paid to tone study—to listening to and distinguishing the various sounds, and to singing them if possible, in solfeggio.
"At the outset a good hand position must be secured, with correct finger movements. Then there must be a thorough drill in scales, arpeggios, chords, and a variety of finger exercises, before any kind of pieces are taken up. The young student in early years, is expected to play various études, as well as the technic studies I have mentioned—Czerny, Cramer, Clementi, and always Bach. In my position, as member of the faculty of the Conservatoire, a great many students pass before me. If I personally accept any pupils, they naturally must be talented and advanced, as I cannot give my time to the children. Still it is interesting to see the child-thought develop."
The conversation turned upon the charming studio with its lovely garden—where absolute quiet could be secured in spite of the noise and bustle of one of the busiest quarters of Paris. The studio itself, we were told, had formerly belonged to the painter Decamps, and some of the pictures and furnishings were once his. A fine portrait of Pugno, life size, filling the whole space above the piano, claimed our attention. He kindly rose, as we admired the painting, and sought a photograph copy. When it was found—the last one he possessed—he presented it with his compliments.
We spoke of Mlle. Boulanger's work in composition, a subject which seemed deeply to interest M. Pugno.
"Yes, she is writing an opera; in fact we are writing it together; the text is from a story of d'Annunzio. I will jot down the title for you."
Taking a paper which I held in my hand, he wrote,
"La Ville Morte, 4 Acts de d'Annuncio; Musique de Nadia Boulanger et Raoul Pugno"
"You will certainly have it performed in America, when it is finished; I will tell them so," I said.
The great pianist smiled blandly and accepted the suggestion with evident satisfaction.
"Yes, we will come to America and see the work performed, when it is completed," he said.
With many expressions of appreciation we took our leave of the Oriental studio and its distinguished occupants; and, as we regained the busy, noisy rue de Clicy, we said to ourselves that we had just lived through one of the most unique experiences of our stay in Paris.
(The above is the last interview ever taken from this great French artist, who passed away a few months later.)
The following items concerning M. Pugno's manner of teaching and personal traits, were given me by Mme. Germaine Schnitzer, the accomplished French pianist and the master's most gifted pupil.
"Pugno had played the piano almost from infancy, and in early youth had taken several piano prizes. Later, however, he gave much more of his time to the organ, to the seeming neglect of the former instrument. How his serious attention was reverted to the piano happened in this wise. It was announced that Edward Grieg, the noted Norwegian, was coming to Paris. Pugno was one day looking over his piano Concerto which had recently appeared. 'Why don't you play the work for the composer when he comes?' asked a friend. 'I am no pianist,' objected Pugno. 'Why not?' said his friend; 'you know enough about the piano, and there are still four weeks in which to learn the Concerto.' Pugno took the advice, practised up the work, played it in the concert given by Grieg, and scored a success. He was then thirty-nine years of age. This appearance was the beginning; other engagements and successes followed, and thus he developed into one of the great pianists of France.
"Pugno was a born pianist; he had a natural gift for technic, and therefore never troubled himself much about teaching technical exercises nor practising them. If the work of a pupil contained technical faults, he made no remarks nor explanations, but simply closed the music book and refused to listen any further. The pupil, of course, retired in discomfiture. He was fond of playing along with the pupil (generally with the left hand), or singing the melodies and themes, in order to give him ideas of the meaning and interpretation of the music. This gave independence to the pupils, though it often afforded them much amusement.
"With advanced students Pugno spoke much about music and what it could express; he translated themes and passages back into the feelings and emotions which had originated them; he showed how all emotions find their counterpart in tones. 'Above all let kindness and goodness control you,' he once wrote; 'if you are filled with kindness, your tone will be beautiful!'
"Pugno's instruction took the form of talks on the inner meaning of the composition, and the art of interpreting it, rather than any training on the technical side; about the latter he concerned himself very little. It goes without saying that only talented pupils made progress under such a master; indeed those without talent interested him not at all. He was a wonderful teacher for those who had the insight to read between the lines, and were able to follow and absorb his artistic enthusiasms.
"I have said that Pugno did not concern himself about teaching the technical side of piano playing. Even with me, his best pupil, he rarely touched upon technical points. I must mention a notable exception. He gave me one technical principle, expressed in a few simple exercises, which I have never heard of from any one else. The use of this principle has helped me amazingly to conquer many knotty passages. I have never given these exercises to any one; I am willing however, to jot them down for you."
(The following is a brief plan of the exercises, as sketched by Mme. Schnitzer)