Mischa Elman
MANNERISMS IN PLAYING
We all know that Elman, when he plays in public, moves his head, moves his body, sways in time to the music; in a word there are certain mannerisms associated with his playing which critics have on occasion mentioned with grave suspicion, as evidences of sensationalism. Half fearing to insult him by asking whether he was "sincere," or whether his motions were "stage business" carefully rehearsed, as had been implied, I still ventured the question. He laughed boyishly and was evidently much amused.
"No, no," he said. "I do not study up any 'stage business' to help out my playing! I do not know whether I ought to compare myself to a dancer, but the appeal of the dance is in all musical movement. Certain rhythms and musical combinations affect me subconsciously. I suppose the direct influence of the music on me is such that there is a sort of emotional reflex: I move with the music in an unconscious translation of it into gesture. It is all so individual. The French violinists as a rule play very correctly in public, keeping their eye on finger and bow. And this appeals to me strongly in theory. In practice I seem to get away from it. It is a matter of temperament I presume. I am willing to believe I'm not graceful, but then—I do not know whether I move or do not move! Some of my friends have spoken of it to me at various times, so I suppose I do move, and sway and all the rest; but any movements of the sort must be unconscious, for I myself know nothing of them. And the idea that they are 'prepared' as 'stage effects' is delightful!" And again Elman laughed.
LIFE AND COLOR IN INTERPRETATION
"For that matter," he continued, "every real artist has some mannerisms when playing, I imagine. Yet more than mannerisms are needed to impress an American audience. Life and color in interpretation are the true secrets of great art. And beauty of interpretation depends, first of all, on variety of color. Technic is, after all, only secondary. No matter how well played a composition be, its performance must have color, nuance, movement, life! Each emotional mood of the moment must be fully expressed, and if it is its appeal is sure. I remember when I once played for Don Manuel, the young ex-king of Portugal, in London, I had an illustration of the fact. He was just a pathetic boy, very democratic, and personally very likable. He was somewhat neglected at the time, for it is well known and not altogether unnatural, that royalty securely established finds 'kings in exile' a bit embarrassing. Don Manuel was a music-lover, and especially fond of Bach. I had had long talks with the young king at various times, and my sympathies had been aroused in his behalf. On the evening of which I speak I played a Chopin Nocturne, and I know that into my playing there went some of my feeling for the pathos of the situation of this young stranger in a strange land, of my own age, eating the bitter bread of exile. When I had finished, the Marchioness of Ripon touched my arm: 'Look at the King!' she whispered. Don Manuel had been moved to tears.
"Of course the purely mechanical must always be dominated by the artistic personality of the player. Yet technic is also an important part of interpretation: knowing exactly how long to hold a bow, the most delicate inflections of its pressure on the strings. There must be perfect sympathy also with the composer's thought; his spirit must stand behind the personality of the artist. In the case of certain famous compositions, like the Beethoven concerto, for instance, this is so well established that the artist, and never the composer, is held responsible if it is not well played. But too rigorous an adherence to 'tradition' in playing is also an extreme. I once played privately for Joachim in Berlin: it was the Bach Chaconne. Now the edition I used was a standard one: and Joachim was extremely reverential as regards traditions. Yet he did not hesitate to indicate some changes which he thought should be made in the version of an authoritative edition, because 'they sounded better.' And 'How does it sound?' is really the true test of all interpretation."
ABSOLUTE PITCH THE FIRST ESSENTIAL OF A
PERFECTED TECHNIC
"What is the fundamental of a perfected violin technic?" was a natural question at this point. "Absolute pitch, first of all," replied Elman promptly. "Many a violinist plays a difficult passage, sounding every note; and yet it sounds out of tune. The first and second movements of the Beethoven concerto have no double-stops; yet they are extremely difficult to play. Why? Because they call for absolute pitch: they must be played in perfect tune so that each tone stands out in all its fullness and clarity like a rock in the sea. And without a fundamental control of pitch such a master work will always be beyond the violinist's reach. Many a player has the facility; but without perfect intonation he can never attain the highest perfection. On the other hand, any one who can play a single phrase in absolute pitch has the first and great essential. Few artists, not barring some of the greatest, play with perfect intonation. Its control depends first of all on the ear. And a sensitive ear finds differences and shading; it bids the violinist play a trifle sharper, a trifle flatter, according to the general harmonic color of the accompaniment; it leads him to observe a difference, when the harmonic atmosphere demands it, between a C sharp in the key of E major and a D flat in the same key.
TECHNICAL PHASES
"Every player finds some phases of technic easy and others difficult. For instance, I have never had to work hard for quality of tone—when I wish to get certain color effects they come: I have no difficulty in expressing my feelings, my emotions in tone. And in a technical way spiccato bowing, which many find so hard, has always been easy to me. I have never had to work for it. Double-stops, on the contrary, cost me hours of intensive work before I played them with ease and facility. What did I practice? Scales in double-stops—they give color and variety to tone. And I gave up a certain portion of my regular practice time to passages from concertos and sonatas. There is wonderful work in double-stops in the Ernst concerto and in the Paganini Études, for instance. With octaves and tenths I have never had any trouble: I have a broad hand and a wide stretch, which accounts for it, I suppose.
"Then there are harmonics, flageolets—I, have never been able to understand why they should be considered so difficult! They should not be white, colorless; but call for just as much color as any other tones (and any one who has heard Mischa Elman play harmonics knows that this is no mere theory on his part). I never think of harmonics as 'harmonics,' but try to give them just as much expressive quality as the notes of any other register. The mental attitude should influence their production—too many violinists think of them only as incidental to pyrotechnical display.
"And fingering? Fingering in general seems to me to be an individual matter. A concert artist may use a certain fingering for a certain passage which no pupil should use, and be entirely justified if he can thus secure a certain effect.
"I do not—speaking out of my own experience—believe much in methods: and never to the extent that they be allowed to kill the student's individuality. A clear, clean tone should always be the ideal of his striving. And to that end he must see that the up and down bows in a passage like the following from the Bach sonata in A minor (and Mr. Elman hastily jotted down the subjoined) are absolutely
even, and of the same length, played with the same strength and length of bow, otherwise the notes are swallowed. In light spiccato and staccato the detached notes should be played always with a single stroke of the bow. Some players, strange to say, find staccato notes more difficult to play at a moderate tempo than fast. I believe it to be altogether a matter of control—if proper control be there the tempo makes no difference. Wieniawski, I have read, could only play his staccati at a high rate of speed. Spiccato is generally held to be more difficult than staccato; yet I myself find it easier.
PROPORTION IN PRACTICE
"To influence a clear, singing tone with the left hand, to phrase it properly with the bow hand, is most important. And it is a matter of proportion. Good phrasing is spoiled by an ugly tone: a beautiful singing tone loses meaning if improperly phrased. When the student has reached a certain point of technical development, technic must be a secondary—yet not neglected—consideration, and he should devote himself to the production of a good tone. Many violinists have missed their career by exaggerated attention to either bow or violin hand. Both hands must be watched at the same time. And the question of proportion should always be kept in mind in practicing studies and passages: pressure of fingers and pressure of bow must be equalized, coordinated. The teacher can only do a certain amount: the pupil must do the rest.
AUER AS A TEACHER
"Take Auer for example. I may call myself the first real exponent of his school, in the sense of making his name widely known. Auer is a great teacher, and leaves much to the individuality of his pupils. He first heard me play at the Imperial Music School in Odessa, and took me to Petrograd to study with him, which I did for a year and four months. And he could accomplish wonders! That one year he had a little group of four pupils each one better than the other—a very stimulating situation for all of them. There was a magnetism about him: he literally hypnotized his pupils into doing better than their best—though in some cases it was evident that once the support of his magnetic personality was withdrawn, the pupil fell back into the level from which he had been raised for the time being.
"Yet Auer respected the fact that temperamentally I was not responsive to this form of appeal. He gave me of his best. I never practiced more than two or three hours a day—just enough to keep fresh. Often I came to my lesson unprepared, and he would have me play things—sonatas, concertos—which I had not touched for a year or more. He was a severe critic, but always a just one.
"I can recall how proud I was when he sent me to beautiful music-loving Helsingfors, in Finland—where all seems to be bloodshed and confusion now—to play a recital in his own stead on one occasion, and how proud he was of my success. Yet Auer had his little peculiarities. I have read somewhere that the great fencing-masters of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were very jealous of the secrets of their famous feints and ripostes, and only confided them to favorite pupils who promised not to reveal them. Auer had his little secrets, too, with which he was loth to part. When I was to make my début in Berlin, I remember, he was naturally enough interested—since I was his pupil—in my scoring a triumph. And he decided to part with some of his treasured technical thrusts and parries. And when I was going over the Tschaikovsky D minor concerto (which I was to play), he would select a passage and say: 'Now I'll play this for you. If you catch it, well and good; if not it is your own fault!' I am happy to say that I did not fail to 'catch' his meaning on any occasion. Auer really has a wonderful intellect, and some secrets well worth knowing. That he is so great an artist himself on the instrument is the more remarkable, since physically he was not exceptionally favored. Often, when he saw me, he'd say with a sigh: 'Ah, if I only had your hand!'
"Auer was a great virtuoso player. He held a unique place in the Imperial Ballet. You know in many of the celebrated ballets, Tschaikovsky's for instance, there occur beautiful and difficult solos for the violin. They call for an artist of the first rank, and Auer was accustomed to play them in Petrograd. In Russia it was considered a decided honor to be called upon to play one of those ballet solos; but in London it was looked on as something quite incidental. I remember when Diaghilev presented Tschaikovsky's Lac des Cygnes in London, the Grand-Duke Andrew Vladimirev (who had heard me play), an amiable young boy, and a patron of the arts, requested me—and at that time the request of a Romanov was still equivalent to a command—to play the violin solos which accompany the love scenes. It was not exactly easy, since I had to play and watch dancers and conductor at the same time. Yet it was a novelty for London, however; everybody was pleased and the Grand-Duke presented me with a handsome diamond pin as an acknowledgment.
VIOLIN MASTERY
"You ask me what I understand by 'Violin Mastery'? Well, it seems to me that the artist who can present anything he plays as a distinct picture, in every detail, framing the composer's idea in the perfect beauty of his plastic rendering, with absolute truth of color and proportion—he is the artist who deserves to be called a master!
"Of course, the instrument the artist uses is an important factor in making it possible for him to do his best. My violin? It is an authentic Strad—dated 1722. I bought it of Willy Burmester in London. You see he did not care much for it. The German style of playing is not calculated to bring out the tone beauty, the quality of the old Italian fiddles. I think Burmester had forced the tone, and it took me some time to make it mellow and truly responsive again, but now...." Mr. Elman beamed. It was evident he was satisfied with his instrument. "As to strings," he continued, "I never use wire strings—they have no color, no quality!
WHAT TO STUDY AND HOW
"For the advanced student there is a wealth of study material. No one ever wrote more beautiful violin music than Haendel, so rich in invention, in harmonic fullness. In Beethoven there are more ideas than tone—but such ideas! Schubert—all genuine, spontaneous! Bach is so gigantic that the violin often seems inadequate to express him. That is one reason why I do not play more Bach in public.
"The study of a sonata or concerto should entirely absorb the attention of the student to such a degree that, as he is able to play it, it has become a part of him. He should be able to play it as though it were an improvisation—of course without doing violence to the composer's idea. If he masters the composition in the way it should be mastered it becomes a portion of himself. Before I even take up my violin I study a piece thoroughly in score. I read and reread it until I am at home with the composer's thought, and its musical balance and proportion. Then, when I begin to play it, its salient points are already memorized, and the practicing gives me a kind of photographic reflex of detail. After I have not played a number for a long time it fades from my memory—like an old negative—but I need only go over it once or twice to have a clear mnemonic picture of it once more.
"Yes, I believe in transcriptions for the violin—with certain provisos," said Mr. Elman, in reply to another question. "First of all the music to be transcribed must lend itself naturally to the instrument. Almost any really good melodic line, especially a cantilena, will sound with a fitting harmonic development. Violinists of former days like Spohr, Rode and Paganini were more intent on composing music out of the violin! The modern idea lays stress first of all on the idea in music. In transcribing I try to forget I am a violinist, in order to form a perfect picture of the musical idea—its violinistic development must be a natural, subconscious working-out. If you will look at some of my recent transcripts—the Albaniz Tango, the negro melody Deep River and Amani's fine Orientale—you will see what I mean. They are conceived as pictures—I have not tried to analyze too much—and while so conceiving them their free harmonic background shapes itself for me without strain or effort.
A REMINISCENCE OF COLONNE
"Conductors with whom I have played? There are many: Hans Richter, who was a master of the baton; Nikisch, one of the greatest in conducting the orchestral accompaniment to a violin solo number; Colonne of Paris, and many others. I had an amusing experience with Colonne once. He brought his orchestra to Russia while I was with Auer, and was giving a concert at Pavlovsk, a summer resort near Petrograd. Colonne had a perfect horror of 'infant prodigies,' and Auer had arranged for me to play with his orchestra without telling him my age—I was eleven at the time. When Colonne saw me, violin in hand, ready to step on the stage, he drew himself up and said with emphasis: 'I play with a prodigy! Never!' Nothing could move him, and I had to play to a piano accompaniment. After he had heard me play, though, he came over to me and said: 'The best apology I can make for what I said is to ask you to do me the honor of playing with the Orchestre Colonne in Paris.' He was as good as his word. Four months later I went to Paris and played the Mendelssohn concerto for him with great success."
V
SAMUEL GARDNER
TECHNIC AND MUSICIANSHIP
Samuel Gardner, though born in Jelisavetgrad,
Cherson province, in Southern Russia,
in 1891, is to all intents and purposes an
American, since his family, fleeing the tyranny
of an Imperialistic regime of "pogroms"
and "Black Hundreds," brought him
to this country when a mere child; and here in
the United States he has become, to quote
Richard Aldrich, "the serious and accomplished
artist," whose work on the concert
stage has given such pleasure to lovers of violin
music at its best. The young violinist, who in
the course of the same week had just won two
prizes in composition—the Pulitzer Prize
(Columbia) for a string quartet, and the Loeb
Prize for a symphonic poem—was amiably
willing to talk of his study experience for the
benefit of other students.
CHARLES MARTIN LOEFFLER AND
FELIX WINTERNITZ AS TEACHERS
"I took up the study of the violin at the age of seven, and when I was nine I went to Charles Martin Loeffler and really began to work seriously. Loeffler was a very strict teacher and very exacting, but he achieved results, for he had a most original way of making his points clear to the student. He started off with the Sevčik studies, laying great stress on the proper finger articulation. And he taught me absolute smoothness in change of position when crossing the strings. For instance, in the second book of Sevčik's 'Technical Exercises,' in the third exercise, the bow crosses from G to A, and from D to E, leaving a string between in each crossing. Well, I simply could not manage to get to the second string to be played without the string in between sounding! Loeffler showed me what every good fiddler must learn to do: to leap from the end of the down-bow to the up-bow and vice versa and then hesitate the fraction of a moment, thus securing a smooth, clean-cut tone, without any vibration of the intermediate string. Loeffler never gave a pupil any rest until he came up to his requirements. I know when I played the seventh and eighth Kreutzer studies for him—they are trill studies—he said: 'You trill like an electric bell, but not fast enough!' And he kept at me to speed up my tempo without loss of clearness or tone-volume, until I could do justice to a rapid trill. It is a great quality in a teacher to be literally able to enforce the pupil's progress in certain directions; for though the latter may not appreciate it at the time, later on he is sure to do so. I remember once when he was trying to explain the perfect crescendo to me, fire-engine bells began to ring in the distance, the sound gradually drawing nearer the house in Charles Street where I was taking my lesson. 'There you have it!' Loeffler cried: 'There's your ideal crescendo! Play it like that and I will be satisfied!' I remained with Loeffler a year and a half, and when he went to Paris began to study with Felix Winternitz.
"Felix Winternitz was a teacher who allowed his pupils to develop individuality. 'I care nothing for theories,' he used to say, 'so long as I can see something original in your work!' He attached little importance to the theory of technic, but a great deal to technical development along individual lines. And he always encouraged me to express myself freely, within my limitations, stressing the musical side of my work. With him I played through the concertos which, after a time, I used for technical material, since every phase of technic and bowing is covered in these great works. I was only fifteen when I left Winternitz and still played by instinct rather than intellectually. I still used my bow arm somewhat stiffly, and did not think much about phrasing. I instinctively phrased whatever the music itself made clear to me, and what I did not understand I merely played.
KNEISEL'S TEACHING METHODS
"But when I came to Franz Kneisel, my last teacher, I began to work with my mind. Kneisel showed me that I had to think when I played. At first I did not realize why he kept at me so insistently about phrasing, interpretation, the exact observance of expression marks; but eventually it dawned on me that he was teaching me to read a soul into each composition I studied.
"I practiced hard, from four to five hours a day. Fortunately, as regards technical equipment, I was ready for Kneisel's instruction. The first thing he gave me to study was, not a brilliant virtuoso piece, but the Bach concerto in E major, and then the Viotti concerto. In the beginning, until Kneisel showed me, I did not know what to do with them. This was music whose notes in themselves were easy, and whose difficulties were all of an individual order. But intellectual analysis, interpretation, are Kneisel's great points. A strict teacher, I worked with him for five years, the most remarkable years of all my violin study.
"Kneisel knows how to develop technical perfection without using technical exercises. I had already played the Mendelssohn, Bruch and Lalo concertos with Winternitz, and these I now restudied with Kneisel. In interpretation he makes clear every phrase in its relation to every other phrase and the movement as a whole. And he insists on his pupils studying theory and composition—something I had formerly not been inclined to take seriously.
"Some teachers are satisfied if the student plays his notes correctly, in a general way. With Kneisel the very least detail, a trill, a scale, has to be given its proper tone-color and dynamic shading in absolute proportion with the balancing harmonies. This trill, in the first movement of the Beethoven concerto—(and Mr. Gardner jotted it down)
Kneisel kept me at during the entire lesson, till I was able to adjust its tone-color and nuances to the accompanying harmony. Then, though many teachers do not know it, it is a tradition in the orchestra to make a diminuendo in the sixth measure, before the change of key to C major, and this diminuendo should, of course, be observed by the solo instrument as well. Yet you will hear well-known artists play the trill throughout with a loud, brilliant tone and no dynamic change!
"Kneisel makes it a point to have all his pupils play chamber music because of its truly broadening influence. And he is unexcelled in taking apart structurally the Beethoven, Brahms, Tschaikovsky and other quartets, in analyzing and explaining the wonderful planning and building up of each movement. I had the honor of playing second violin in the Kneisel Quartet from September to February (1914-1915), at the outbreak of the war, a most interesting experience. The musicianship Kneisel had given me; I was used to his style and at home with his ideas, and am happy to think that he was satisfied. A year later as assistant concertmaster in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, I had a chance to become practically acquainted with the orchestral works of Strauss, d'Indy and other moderns, and enjoy the Beethoven, Brahms and Tschaikovsky symphonies as a performer.
TECHNIC AND MUSICIANSHIP
"How do I regard technic now? I think of it in the terms of the music itself. Music should dictate the technical means to be used. The composition and its phrases should determine bowing and the tone quality employed. One should not think of down-bows or up-bows. In the Brahms concerto you can find many long phrases: they cannot be played with one bow; yet there must be no apparent change of bow. If the player does not know what the phrase means; how to interpret it, how will he be able to bow it correctly?
"And there are so many different nuances, especially in legato. It is as a rule produced by a slurred bow; yet it may also be produced by other bowings. To secure a good legato tone watch the singer. The singer can establish the perfect smoothness that legato calls for to perfection. To secure a like effect the violinist should convey the impression that there is no point, no frog, that the bow he uses is of indefinite length. And the violinist should never think: 'I must play this up-bow or down-bow.' Artists of the German school are more apt to begin a phrase with a down-bow; the French start playing a good deal at the point. Up or down, both are secondary to finding out, first of all, what quality, what balance of tone the phrase demands. The conductor of a symphonic orchestra does not care how, technically, certain effects are produced by the violins, whether they use an up-bow or a down-bow. He merely says: 'That's too heavy: give me less tone!' The result to be achieved is always more important than the manner of achievement.
"All phases of technical accomplishment, if rightly acquired, tend to become second nature to the player in the course of time: staccato, a brilliant trick; spiccato, the reiteration of notes played from the wrist, etc. The martellato, a nuance of spiccato, should be played with a firm bowing at the point. In a very broad spiccato, the arm may be brought into play; but otherwise not, since it makes rapid playing impossible. Too many amateurs try to play spiccato from the arm. And too many teachers are contented with a trill that is merely brilliant. Kneisel insists on what he calls a 'musical trill,' of which Kreisler's beautiful trill is a perfect example. The trill of some violinists is invariably brilliant, whether brilliancy is appropriate or not. Brilliant trills in Bach always seem out of place to me; while in Paganini and in Wieniawski's Carnaval de Venise a high brilliant trill is very effective.
"As to double-stops—Edison once said that violin music should be written only in double-stops—I practice them playing first the single notes and then the two together, and can recommend this mode of practice from personal experience. Harmonics, where clarity is the most important thing, are mainly a matter of bowing, of a sure attack and sustaining by the bow. Of course the harmonics themselves are made by the fingers; but their tone quality rests altogether with the bow.
EDISON AND OCTAVES
"The best thing I've ever heard said of octaves was Edison's remark to me that 'They are merely a nuisance and should not be played!' I was making some records for him during the experimental stage of the disk record, when he was trying to get an absolutely smooth legato tone, one that conformed to Loeffler's definition of it as 'no breaks' in the tone. He had had Schubert's Ave Maria recorded by Flesch, MacMillan and others, and wanted me to play it for him. The records were all played for me, and whenever he came to the octave passages Edison would say: 'Listen to them! How badly they sound!' Yet the octaves were absolutely in tune! 'Why do they sound so badly?' I inquired.
"Then Edison explained to me that according to the scientific theory of vibration, the vibrations of the higher tone of the octaves should be exactly twice those of the lower note. 'But here,' he continued, 'the vibrations of the notes all vary.' 'Yet how can the player control his fingers in the vibrato beyond playing his octaves in perfect tune?' I asked. 'Well, if he cannot do so,' said Edison, 'octaves are merely a nuisance, and should not be played at all.' I experimented and found that by simply pressing down the fingers and playing without any vibrato, I could come pretty near securing the exact relation between the vibrations of the upper and lower notes but—they sounded dreadful! Of course, octaves sound well in ensemble, especially in the orchestra, because each player plays but a single note. And tenths sound even better than octaves when two people play them.
WIRE AND GUT STRINGS
"You ask about my violin? It belonged to the famous Hawley collection, and is a Giovanni Baptista Guadignini, made in 1780, in Turin. The back is a single piece of maple-wood, having a broadish figure extending across its breadth. The maple-wood sides match the back. The top is formed of a very choice piece of spruce, and it is varnished a deep golden-red. It has a remarkably fine tone, very vibrant and with great carrying power, a tone that has all that I can ask for as regards volume and quality.
"I think that wire strings are largely used now-a-days because gut strings are hard to obtain—not because they are better. I do not use wire strings. I have tried them and find them thin in tone, or so brilliant that their tone is too piercing. Then, too, I find that the use of a wire E reduces the volume of tone of the other strings. No wire string has the quality of a fine gut string; and I regard them only as a substitute in the case of some people, and a convenience for lazy ones.
VIOLIN MASTERY
"Violin Mastery? Off-hand I might say the phrase stands for a life-time of effort with its highest aims unattained. As I see it the achievement of violin mastery represents a combination of 90 per cent. of toil and 10 per cent. of talent or inspiration. Goetschius, with whom I studied composition, once said to me: 'I do not congratulate you on having talent. That is a gift. But I do congratulate you on being able to work hard!' The same thing applies to the fiddle. It seems to me that only by keeping everlastingly at it can one become a master of the instrument."
VI
ARTHUR HARTMANN
THE PROBLEM OF TECHNIC
Arthur Hartmann is distinctly and unmistakably
a personality. He stands out even
in that circle of distinguished contemporary
violinists which is so largely made up of personalities.
He is a composer—not only of
violin pieces, but of symphonic and choral
works, chamber music, songs and piano numbers.
His critical analysis of Bach's Chaconne,
translated into well-nigh every tongue, is probably
the most complete and exhaustive study
of "that triumph of genius over matter" written.
And besides being a master of his own instrument
he plays the viola d'amore, that
sweet-toned survival, with sympathetic strings,
of the 17th century viol family, and the Hungarian
czimbalom. Nor is his mastery of the
last-named instrument "out of drawing," for
we must remember that Mr. Hartmann was
born in Maté Szalka, in Southern Hungary.
Then, too, Mr. Hartmann is a genial and original
thinker, a littérateur of no mean ability,
a bibliophile, the intimate of the late Claude
Debussy, and of many of the great men of
musical Europe. Yet from the reader's standpoint
the interest he inspires is, no doubt,
mainly due to the fact that not only is he a
great interpreting artist—but a great artist
doubled by a great teacher, an unusual combination.
Arthur Hartmann
Characteristic of Mr. Hartmann's hospitality (the writer had passed a pleasant hour with him some years before, but had not seen him since), was the fact that he insisted in brewing Turkish coffee, and making his caller feel quite at home before even allowing him to broach the subject of his visit. And when he learned that its purpose was to draw on his knowledge and experience for information which would be of value to the serious student and lover of his art, he did not refuse to respond.
WHAT VIOLIN PLAYING REALLY IS
"Violin playing is really no abstract mystery. It's as clear as geography in a way: one might say the whole art is bounded on the South by the G string, on the North by the E string, on the West by the string hand—and that's about as far as the comparison may be carried out. The point is, there are definite boundaries, whose technical and esthetic limits may be extended, and territorial annexations made through brain power, mental control. To me 'Violin Mastery' means taking this little fiddle-box in hand [and Mr. Hartmann suited action to word by raising the lid of his violin-case and drawing forth his beautiful 1711 Strad], and doing just what I want with it. And that means having the right finger on the right place at the right time—but don't forget that to be able to do this you must have forgotten to think of your fingers as fingers. They should be simply unconscious slaves of the artist's psychic expression, absolutely subservient to his ideal. Too many people reverse the process and become slaves to their fingers.
THE PROBLEM OF TECHNIC
"Technic, for instance, in its mechanical sense, is a much exaggerated microbe of Materia musica. All technic must conform to its instrument.[1] The violin was made to suit the hand, not the hand to suit the violin, hence its technic must be based on a natural logic of hand movement. The whole problem of technical control is encountered in the first change of position on the violin. If we violinists could play in but one position there would be no technical problem. The solution of this problem means, speaking broadly, the ability to play the violin—for there is only one way of playing it—with a real, full, singing 'violin' tone. It's not a question of a method, but just a process based on pure reason, the working out of rational principles.
[1] This is the idea which underlies my system for ear-training and absolute pitch, "Arthur Hartmann's System," as I call it, which I have published. A.H.
"What is the secret of this singing tone? Well, you may call it a secret, for many of my pupils have no inkling of it when they first come here, though it seems very much of an 'open secret' to me. The finished beauty of the violin 'voice' is a round, sustained, absolutely smooth cantabile tone. Now [Mr. Hartmann took up his Strad], I'll play you the scale of G as the average violin student plays it. You see—each slide from one tone to the next, a break—a rosary of lurches! How can there be a round, harmonious tone when the fingers progress by jerks? Shifting position must not be a continuous movement of effort, but a continuous movement in which effort and relaxation—that of dead weight—alternate. As an illustration, when we walk we do not consciously set down one foot, and then swing forward the other foot and leg with a jerk. The forward movement is smooth, unconscious, coordinated: in putting the foot forward it carries the weight of the entire body, the movement becomes a matter of instinct. And the same applies to the progression of the fingers in shifting the position of the hand. Now, playing the scale as I now do—only two fingers should be used—
I prepare every shift. Absolute accuracy of intonation and a singing legato is the result. These guiding notes indicated are merely a test to prove the scientific spacing of the violin; they are not sounded once control of the hand has been obtained. They serve only to accustom the fingers to keep moving in the direction in which they are going.
"The tone is produced by the left hand, by the weight of the fingers plus an undercurrent of sustained effort. Now, you see, if in the moment of sliding you prepare the bow for the next string, the slide itself is lost in the crossing of the bow. To carry out consistently this idea of effort and relaxation in the downward progression of the scale, you will find that when you are in the third position, the position of the hand is practically the same as in the first position. Hence, in order to go down from third to first position with the hand in what might be called a 'block' position, another movement is called for to bridge over this space (between third and first position), and this movement is the function of the thumb. The thumb, preceding the hand, relaxes the wrist and helps draw the hand back to first position. But great care must be taken that the thumb is not moved until the first finger will have been played; otherwise there will be a tendency to flatten. In the illustration the indication for the thumb is placed after the note played by the first finger.
"The inviolable law of beautiful playing is that there must be no angles. As I have shown you, right and left hand coördinate. The fiddle hand is preparing the change of position, while the change of strings is prepared by the right hand. And always the slides in the left hand are prepared by the last played finger—the last played finger is the true guide to smooth progression—just as the bow hand prepares the slides in the last played bowing. There should be no such thing as jumping and trusting in Providence to land right, and a curse ought to be laid on those who let their fingers leave the fingerboard. None who develop this fundamental aspect of all good playing lose the perfect control of position.
"Of course there are a hundred nuances of technic (into which the quality of good taste enters largely) that one could talk of at length: phrasing, and the subtle things happening in the bow arm that influence it; spiccato, whose whole secret is finding the right point of balance in the bow and, with light finger control, never allowing it to leave the string. I've never been able to see the virtue of octaves or the logic of double-stops. Like tenths, one plays or does not play them. But do they add one iota of beauty to violin music? I doubt it! And, after all, it is the poetry of playing that counts. All violin playing in its essence is the quest for color; its perfection, that subtle art which hides art, and which is so rarely understood."
"Could you give me a few guiding rules, a few Beatitudes, as it were, for the serious student to follow?" I asked Mr. Hartmann. Though the artist smiled at the idea of Beatitudes for the violinist, yet he was finally amiable enough to give me the following, telling me I would have to take them for what they were worth:
NINE BEATITUDES FOR VIOLINISTS
"Blessed are they who early in life approach Bach, for their love and veneration for music will multiply with the years.
"Blessed are they who remember their own early struggles, for their merciful criticism will help others to a greater achievement and furtherance of the Divine Art.
"Blessed are they who know their own limitations, for they shall have joy in the accomplishment of others.
"Blessed are they who revere the teachers—their own or those of others—and who remember them with credit.
"Blessed are they who, revering the old masters, seek out the newer ones and do not begrudge them a hearing or two.
"Blessed are they who work in obscurity, nor sound the trumpet, for Art has ever been for the few, and shuns the vulgar blare of ignorance.
"Blessed are they whom men revile as futurists and modernists, for Art can evolve only through the medium of iconoclastic spirits.
"Blessed are they who unflinchingly serve their Art, for thus only is their happiness to be gained.
"Blessed are they who have many enemies, for square pegs will never fit into round holes."
ARRANGING VERSUS TRANSCRIBING
Arthur Hartmann, like Kreisler, Elman, Maud Powell and others of his colleagues, has enriched the literature of the violin with some notably fine transcriptions. And it is a subject on which he has well-defined opinions and regarding which he makes certain distinctions: "An 'arrangement,'" he said, "as a rule, is a purely commercial affair, into which neither art nor æsthetics enter. It usually consists in writing off the melody of a song—in other words, playing the 'tune' on an instrument instead of hearing it sung with words—or in the case of a piano composition, in writing off the upper voice, leaving the rest intact, regardless of sonority, tone-color or even effectiveness, and, furthermore, without consideration of the idiomatic principles of the instrument to which the adaptation was meant to fit.
"A 'transcription,' on the other hand, can be raised to the dignity of an art-work. Indeed, at times it may even surpass the original, in the quality of thought brought into the work, the delicate and sympathetic treatment and by the many subtleties which an artist can introduce to make it thoroughly a re-creation of his chosen instrument.
"It is the transcriber's privilege—providing he be sufficiently the artist to approach the personality of another artist with reverence—to donate his own gifts of ingenuity, and to exercise his judgment in either adding, omitting, harmonically or otherwise embellishing the work (while preserving the original idea and characteristics), so as to thoroughly re-create it, so completely destroying the very sensing of the original timbre that one involuntarily exclaims, 'Truly, this never was anything but a violin piece!' It is this, the blending and fusion of two personalities in the achievement of an art-ideal, that is the result of a true adaptation.
"Among the transcriptions I have most enjoyed making were those of Debussy's Il pleure dans mon cœur, and La Fille aux cheveaux de lin. Debussy was my cherished friend, and they represent a labor of love. Though Debussy was not, generally speaking, an advocate of transcriptions, he liked these, and I remember when I first played La Fille aux cheveaux de lin for him, and came to a bit of counterpoint I had introduced in the violin melody, whistling the harmonics, he nodded approvingly with a 'pas bête ça!' (Not stupid, that!)
DEBUSSY'S POÈME FOR VIOLIN
"Debussy came near writing a violin piece for me once!" continued Mr. Hartmann, and brought out a folio containing letters the great impressionist had written him. They were a delightful revelation of the human side of Debussy's character, and Mr. Hartmann kindly consented to the quotation of one bearing on the Poème for violin which Debussy had promised to write for him, and which, alas, owing to his illness and other reasons, never actually came to be written:
"Dear Friend:
"Of course I am working a great deal now, because I feel the need of writing music, and would find it difficult to build an aeroplane; yet at times Music is ill-natured, even toward those who love her most! Then I take my little daughter and my hat and go walking in the Bois de Boulogne, where one meets people who have come from afar to bore themselves in Paris.
"I think of you, I might even say I am in need of you (assume an air of exaltation and bow, if you please!) As to the Poème for violin, you may rest assured that I will write it. Only at the present moment I am so preoccupied with the 'Fall of the House of Usher!' They talk too much to me about it. I'll have to put an end to all that or I will go mad. Once more I want to write it, and above all on your account. And I believe you will be the only one to play the Poème. Others will attempt it, and then quickly return to the Mendelssohn Concerto!
"Believe me always your sincere friend,
"Claude Debussy."
"He never did write it," said Mr. Hartmann,
"but it was not for want of good will.
As to other transcriptions, I have never done
any that I did not feel instinctively would make
good fiddle pieces, such as MacDowell's To
a Wild Rose and others of his compositions.
And recently I have transcribed some fine
Russian things—Gretchaninoff's Chant d'Automne,
Karagitscheff's Exaltation, Tschaikovsky's
Humoresque, Balakirew's Chant du
Pechêur, and Poldini's little Poupée valsante,
which Maud Powell plays so delightfully on
all her programs."
VII
JASCHA HEIFETZ
THE DANGER OF PRACTICING TOO MUCH.
TECHNICAL MASTERY AND
TEMPERAMENT
Mature in virtuosity—the modern virtuosity
which goes so far beyond the mere technical
mastery that once made the term a reproach—though
young in years, Jascha Heifetz, when
one makes his acquaintance "off-stage," seems
singularly modest about the great gifts which
have brought him international fame. He is
amiable, unassuming and—the best proof, perhaps,
that his talent is a thing genuine and inborn,
not the result of a forcing process—he
has that broad interest in art and in life going
far beyond his own particular medium, the
violin, without which no artist may become
truly great. For Jascha Heifetz, with his
wonderful record of accomplishment achieved,
and with triumphs still to come before him,
does not believe in "all work and no play."