"One of the most necessary things is the conserving of vital energy in piano practise," said the pianist Rudolph Ganz to me one day. "The wrong way is to continually practise the piece as though you were playing it in public—that is to say, with all possible energy and emotion. Some of the pianists now before the public do this, and it always makes me sorry for them, for I know what a needless waste of energy and vital force it is. An actor, studying his lines, does not need to continually shout them in order to learn how they should be interpreted. Neither does the lyric actress practise her roles with full tones, for she is well used to saving her voice. Why then should the pianist exhaust himself and give out his whole strength merely in the daily routine of practise? I grant this principle of saving one's self may not be easy to learn, but it should be acquired by all players, great and small. I think a pianist should be able to practise five or six hours daily without fatigue. If the player is accustomed to husband his vital force during the daily routine of practise, he can play a long, exacting program in public without weariness. In every day practise one often does not need to play forte nor use the pedals; a tone of medium power is sufficient. Suppose, for instance, you are studying the Chopin Étude Op. 10, No. 12, with the left hand arpeggio work. Every note and finger must be in place, every mark of phrasing obeyed; but during practise hours you need not give the piece all its dashing vigor and bravura at every repetition. Such a course would soon exhaust the player. Yet every effect you wish to make must be thoroughly studied, must be in mind, and used at intervals whenever a complete performance of the piece is desired.
"As I said before, it is often difficult to control the impulse to 'let loose,' if the work is an exciting one. At a recent rehearsal with the Symphony Orchestra, I told the men I would quietly run through the concerto I was to play, merely indicating the effects I wanted. We began, but in five minIutes I found myself playing with full force and vigor.
"In regard to methods in piano study there seems to be a diversity of opinion, resulting, I think, from the various ways of touching the keys—some players using the tip and others the ball of the finger. Busoni may be cited as one who employs the end of the finger—Pauer also; while the Frenchman, Cortôt, who has an exquisite tone, plays with the hand almost flat on the keys, a method which certainly insures weight of hand and arm. Of course players generally, and teachers also, agree on the employment of arm weight in playing. The principles of piano technic are surely but few. Was it not Liszt who said: 'Play the right key with the right finger, the right tone and the right intention—that is all!' It seems to me piano technic has been pushed to its limit, and there must be a reversal; we may return to some of the older methods of touch and technic.
"The vital thing in piano playing is to bring out the composer's meaning, plus your own inspiration and feeling. You must study deeply into the composer's idea, but you must also put your own feeling, intensity and emotion into the piece. And not only must you feel the meaning yourself, but you must play it in a way to touch others. There are many pianists who are not cultured musicians; who think they know their Beethoven because they can play a few sonatas. In music 'knowledge is power.' We need all possible knowledge, but we also need to feel the inspiration. One of the greatest teachers of our time holds that personal inspiration is not necessary; for the feeling is all in the music itself. All we have to do is to play with such and such a dynamic quality of tone. Like a country doctor measuring out his drugs, this master apportions so many grains of power for forte, for mezzo, for piano, and so on. This plan puts a damper on individuality and enthusiasm, for it means that everything must be coldly calculated. Such playing does not really warm the heart.
"I believe in teaching tonal contrasts and tone color even to a beginner. Why should not the child form a concept of forte and piano, and so get away from the deadly monotony of mezzo? I have written some little descriptive piano pieces, and my small boy learned one of them to play for me. There is a closing phrase like this," and Mr. Ganz illustrated at the piano; "it is to be played forte, and is followed by a few notes to be touched very softly, like an echo. It was really beautiful to see how the little fellow reached out for the pedal to make the loud part more emphatic, and then played the echo very softly and neatly. He had grasped the first principle of tone color—namely tone contrast, and also a poetic idea.
"There are so many wonder children in these days, and many marvels are accomplished by infant prodigies. Very often however, these wonder children develop no further; they fail to fulfil their early promise, or the expectations held of them.
"A youthful wonder in the field of composition is Eric Korngold, whose piano sonata I played in my New York recital. I have played this work eight times in all, during my present tour, often by request. To me it is most interesting. I cannot say it is logical in the development of its ideas; it often seems as though the boy threw in chords here and there with no particular reason. Thus the effort of memorizing is considerable, for I must always bear in mind that this C major chord has a C sharp in it, or that such and such a chord is changed into a most unusual one. One cannot predict whether the boy will develop further. As you say, Mozart was an infant prodigy, but if we judge from the first little compositions that have been preserved, he began very simply and worked up, whereas Korngold begins at Richard Strauss. His compositions are full of the influence of Strauss. The critics have much to say for and against these early works. I do not know the young composer personally, though he has written me. In a recent letter which I have here, he expresses the thought that, though the critics have found many things to disapprove of in the sonata, the fact that I have found it worth studying and bringing out more than compensates him for all adverse criticism. To make the work known in the great musical centers of America is surely giving it wide publicity."
On a later occasion, Mr. Ganz said:
"I thoroughly believe in preserving one's enthusiasm for modern music, even though, at first glance, it does not attract one, or indeed seems almost impossible. I enjoy studying new works, and learning what is the modern trend of thought in piano work; it keeps me young and buoyant.
"One of the novelties lately added to my repertoire is the Haydn sonata in D. On the same program I place the Korngold sonata. A hundred years and more divide the two works. While I revere the old, it interests me to keep abreast of the new thought in musical art and life."
Between the many engagements that crowded upon the close of her long American tour, Miss Tina Lerner found time to talk over certain topics of significance which bear upon pianistic problems.
We began by referring to the different methods of holding the hands, moving the fingers and touching the keys, as exemplified by the various pianists now before the public.
"It is true that I play with the ball of the finger on the key, which necessitates a flat position of hand, with low wrist." Here the pianist illustrated the point by playing several pearly scales with straight, outstretched fingers. "I never realized, however, that I played in this way, until Mr. Ernest Hutcheson, the pianist, of Baltimore, recently called my attention to it. The fact is, I have always taken positions of body, arms, hands and fingers, which seemed to me the most natural and easy. This I did when I began, at the age of five, and I have always kept to them, in spite of what various teachers have endeavored to do for me. Fortunately my early teachers were sensible and careful; they kept me at the classics, and did not give too difficult pieces. The principles followed by most great pianists I believe are correct; but I have always kept to my own natural way. In hand position, therefore, I am individual; perhaps no one else plays with such a finger position, so in this I am unique.
"For some reason unknown to me, it has come to be imagined that I have studied with Leschetizky; this is entirely refuted when I say I have never been in Vienna. It seems we are getting away from the idea of helping ourselves out with the name of some great teacher. The question should be: What has the player in himself, what can he accomplish? not, Whose pupil is he? We know of some of Leschetizky's famous pupils, but we never hear of the thousands he must have had, who have come to nothing. A teacher can only do a certain amount for you; he can give you new ideas, which each pupil works out for himself in his own way. The piano student learns from so many different sources. He attends a piano recital and acquires many ideas of touch, tone, phrasing and interpretation; he hears a great singer or violinist and absorbs a wholly new set of thoughts, or he listens to a grand orchestra, and gains more than from all the others. Then there is life to study from: experience—living—loving: all go into the work of the musician. A musical career is indeed the most exacting one that can be chosen.
"I have been asked whether I prefer to play for an audience of 'music-lovers' or one of 'music knowers.' Perhaps an equal mixture is the happy medium. Of the two sorts it seems to me the music-knowers are preferable, for even if they are very critical, they also recognize the various points you make; they see and appreciate what you are striving for. They are not inclined to say, 'I don't like such or such a player'; for the music-knower understands the vast amount of time and energy, labor and talent that go to make a pianist. He rather says, 'I prefer the playing of such or such an artist.' The word 'like' in connection with a great artist seems almost an affront. What does it matter if his work is not 'liked' by some? He knows it can stand for what it is—the utmost perfection of his powers—of himself. And after all the audience is the greatest teacher an artist can have; I have learned more from this teacher than from any other. In this school I learn what moves and touches an audience; how to improve this or that passage; how to make a greater climax here, or more sympathetic coloring there. For in conceiving how a work should sound, I get—in my study of it—a general idea of the whole, and make it as nearly perfect as I am able. But it has to be tested and tried—an audience must pass its opinion—must set the seal of approval upon it. When the work has been polished by repeated trials in this school, interpretation then becomes crystallized in the mind and the piece can always be given in nearly the same way. A painter does not change nor repaint his picture each time he exhibits it; why need the musician change his idea of the interpretation at each repetition? To trust too much to the inspiration of the moment might injure the performance as a whole. When I have my ideal of the interpretation worked out in mind, it becomes my sacred duty to play it always in this spirit—always to give my best. I can never think that because I am playing in Boston or New York, I must strive harder for perfection than if I play in a little town. No, I must give the highest that is in me, no matter where it may be. People sometimes ask me if I am nervous before a recital. It is not that I am afraid of people; but I am always anxious about being able to realize my ideal, when the moment comes.
"I can say I prefer playing in America to anywhere else in the world; for there are more real appreciation and understanding here than in any other country. Of course the great music centers all over the world are about the same; but the difference lies in the smaller cities, which in America are far more advanced musically than in Europe. I have proved this to be the case repeatedly. Not long ago I was booked for a couple of recitals in a small town of not more than two thousand inhabitants. When I arrived at the little place, and saw the barn of a hotel, I wondered what these people could want with piano recitals. But when I came to the college where I was to play and found such a large, intelligent audience gathered, some of whom had traveled many miles to be present, it proved in what estimation music was held. The teacher of this school was a good musician, who had studied nine years with Leschetizky, in Vienna; the pupils understood the numbers on the program, were wide awake, and well informed as to what was going on in the world of music.
"One handicap the present day pianist encounters, who plays much with orchestra, and that is the dearth of modern concertos. The familiar ten or dozen famous ones are played over and over, and one seldom hears anything new. There are new ones written, to be sure, but the public has not learned to care for them. The beautiful second concerto of Rachmaninoff has not made a success, even in the great music centers, where the most intelligent audiences have heard it. I believe that if an audience of the best musicians could be assembled in a small room and this work could be played to them, they could not fail to be impressed with its beauties. I am now studying a new concerto by Haddon Wood, which you see in manuscript there on the piano; it is one I find very beautiful."
A subsequent conversation with the artist elicited the following:
"I might say that I began my music when about four years old, by playing the Russian National Hymn, on a toy piano containing eight keys, which had been given me. My older sister, who was studying the piano, noticed this, showed me a few things about the notes, and I constantly picked out little tunes and pieces on the real piano. Finally one day my sister's teacher, Rudolph Heim, came to the house, mainly on my account. This was in Odessa, in the south of Russia, where I was born and where I spent my early years. On this occasion, he wanted to look at me and see what I could do. Unluckily a sudden fit of shyness overcame me and I began to cry; the exhibition could not take place, as nothing could be made out of me that day. You see I was headstrong even at that early age," said the young pianist, with one of her charming smiles.
"Soon after this incident, I was taken to the Professor's studio. He examined me, considered I had talent, and thought it should be cultivated. So he took me in hand. I was then five, and my real musical education began at that time.
"From the very first I adopted a position of hand which seemed to me most convenient and comfortable, and no amount of contrary instruction and advice has ever been able to make me change it. I play scales and passages with low hand and flat fingers because that position seems the most favorable for my hand. When practising, I play everything very slowly, raising my fingers high and straight from the knuckle joint. This gives me great clearness and firmness. In rapid passage work the action is reduced, but the position remains. I am said to have a clear, pearly touch, with quite sufficient power at my command for large works.
"After five years of study with my first teacher, Rudolph Heim, a pupil of Moscheles, I entered the Moscow Conservatory, and continued my studies under Professor Pabst, brother and teacher of the composer of that name. I was then ten years old. Professor Pabst was very conservative, very strict, and kept me at work on the music of the older masters. This kind of music suits me, I think; at least I enjoy it. Even here I still clung to my ideas of holding my hands and of touching the keys, and always expect to do so.
"I remained with this professor about six years and then began my public career.
"You ask about my present studies, and how I regulate my practise. During my periods of rest from concert work, I practise a great deal—I wish I could say all the time, but that is not quite possible. I give an hour or more a day to technical practise. As to the material, I use Chopin's Études constantly, playing them with high-raised, outstretched fingers, in very slow tempo. One finds almost every technical problem illustrated in these études; octaves, arpeggios, scales in double thirds and sixths, repeated notes, as in number 7, broken chords and passage work. I keep all these études in daily practise, also using some of the Liszt Études Transcendantes, and, of course, Bach. The advantage of using this sort of material is that one never tires of it; it is always interesting and beautiful. With this material well in hand, I am always ready for recital, and need only to add special pieces and modern music.
"In learning a new work I first study it very slowly, trying to become familiar with its meaning. I form my concept of it and live with it for months before I care to bring it forward. I try to form an ideal conception of the piece, work this out in every detail, then always endeavor to render it as closely like the ideal as possible."
The brilliant young pianist, Ethel Leginska, who is located for a time in America, was seen in her Carnegie Hall studio, on her return from a concert tour. The young English girl is a petite brunette; her face is very expressive, her manner at once vivacious and serious. The firm muscles of her fine, shapely hands indicate that she must spend many hours daily at the keyboard.
"Yes, I have played a great deal in public—all my life, in fact—ever since I was six. I began my musical studies at Hull, where we lived; my first teacher was a pupil of McFarren. Later I was taken to London, where some rich people did a great deal for me. Afterward I went to Leschetizky, and was with him several years, until I was sixteen; I also studied in Berlin. Then I began my career, and concertized all over Europe; now I am in America for a time. I like it here; I am fond of your country already.
"The piano is such a wonderful instrument to me; I feel we are only beginning to fathom its possibilities; not in a technical sense, but as a big avenue for expression. For me the piano is capable of reflecting every mood, every feeling; all pathos, joy, sorrow—the good and the evil too—all there is in life, all that one has lived." (This recalls a recently published remark of J. S. Van Cleve: "The piano can sing, march, dance, sparkle, thunder, weep, sneer, question, assert, complain, whisper, hint; in one word it is the most versatile and plastic of instruments.")
"As for the technic of the piano, I think of it only as the material—only as a means to an end. In fact I endeavor to get away from the thought of the technical material, in order that I may get at the meaning of the music I wish to interpret. I am convinced there is a great future for the piano and its music. Even now we are taking piano music very seriously, and are trying to interpret it in a far deeper and broader sense than the pianists of, say, fifty years ago ever thought of doing. I fancy if Clara Schumann, for instance, could return and play to us, or even Liszt himself, we should not find their playing suited to this age at all. Some of us yet remember the hand position Mme. Schumann had, the lack of freedom in fingers and arms. It was not the fashion of her time to play with the relaxed freedom, with the breadth and depth of style which we demand of artists to-day. In those days relaxation had not received the attention it deserved, therefore we should probably find the playing of the greatest artists of a former generation stiff and angular, in spite of all we have heard of their wonderful performances.
"Relaxation is a hobby with me; I believe in absolute freedom in every part of the arm anatomy, from the shoulder down to the finger-tips. Stiffness seems to me the most reprehensible thing in piano playing, as well as the most common fault with all kinds of players. When people come to play for me, that is the thing I see first in them, the stiffness. While living in Berlin, I saw much of Mme. Teresa Carreño, and she feels the same as I do about relaxation, not only at the keyboard, but when sitting, moving about or walking. She has thought along this line so constantly, that sometimes, if carrying something in hand, she will inadvertently let it drop, without realizing it—from sheer force of the habit of relaxation.
"You ask how I would begin with a young pupil who never has had lessons. I use the principle of relaxation first of all, loosening arms and wrists. This principle can be taught to the youngest pupil. The wrist is elevated and lowered, as the hand is formed on the keys in its five finger position, with arched knuckles. It does not take long to acquire this relaxed condition; then come the finger movements. I do not believe in lifting the fingers high above the keys; this takes time and interferes with velocity and power. I lift my fingers but little above the keys, yet I have plenty of power, all the critics agree on that. In chords and octaves I get all the power I need by grasping the keys with weight and pressure. I do not even prepare the fingers in the air, before taking the chord; I do not find it necessary." Here the pianist played a succession of ringing chords, whose power and tonal quality bore out her words; the fingers seemed merely to press and cling; there was no striking nor percussion.
"To return to the beginning pupil. As for a book to start with, I often use the one by Damm, though any foundational work may be employed, so long as correct principles are taught. It is said by Leschetizky that he has no method. That may be understood to mean a book, for he certainly has what others would call a method. There are principles and various sets of exercises to be learned; but it is quite true that none of the Vorbereiters use a book.
"In teaching the piano, as you know, every pupil is different; each has his or her own peculiar hand, and a different degree of intelligence. So each pupil must be treated differently. This is really an advantage to the teacher; for it would be very monotonous if all pupils were alike.
"The piano is such a revealer of character; I need only to hear a person play to know what sort of character he has. If one is inclined to much careful detail in everything, it comes out in the playing. If one is indolent and indifferent, it is seen the moment one touches the keys; or if one is built on broad, generous lines, and sees the dramatic point in life and things, all this is revealed at the piano.
"To refer again to the subject of finger action. I do not believe in the so-called finger stroke; on the contrary I advocate fingers close to the keys, clinging to them whenever you can. This is also Arthur Schnabel's idea. You should hear Schnabel; all Berlin is wild over him, and whenever he gives a concert the house is sold out. He has quantities of pupils also, and is quite a remarkable teacher. One point I insist upon which he doesn't: I will not allow the joint of the finger next the tip to break or give in. I can not stand that, but Schnabel doesn't seem to care about it; his mind is filled with only the big, broad things of music.
"In regard to memorizing piano compositions. I do it phrase by phrase, and at the instrument, unless I am traveling or unable to get to a piano, in which case I think it out from the notes. If the piece is very difficult I take a short passage of two or three measures and play each hand separately and then together; but generally I play the passage complete—say half a dozen times with the notes, and then repeat it the same number of times from memory. Perhaps the next day I have forgotten it, so the work has to be done over again; the second time, however, it generally sticks.
"My great longing and ambition is to write music, to become a composer. With this end in view, I give whatever time I am able to the study of composition. I hope some day to create something that will be worthy the high aim I have before me."
If environment and atmosphere are inspirational aids to piano teaching and playing, the students of Mrs. Thomas Tapper have the incentives of both in their lesson hours. Her apartments on the Drive have the glory of sunlight all the long afternoons. Outside the Hudson shimmers in blue and gold; indoors all is harmonious and home-like. In the large music-room, facing the river, two grand pianos stand side by side; there are many portraits and mementoes of the great in music; fresh flowers, books—everything to uplift thought; while in the midst of it all is Mrs. Tapper herself, the serious, high-minded, inspiring teacher; the "mother confessor" to a large number of young artists and teachers.
"Music study means so much more than merely exercising the fingers," she said; "the student should have a good all-round education. When young people come to me for instruction, I ask what they are doing in school. If they say they have left school in order to devote their whole time to the piano, I say, 'Go back to your school, and come to me later, when you have finished your school course.' It is true that in rare cases it may be advisable for the student to leave school, but he should then pursue general or special studies at home. I often wish the music student's education in this country could be arranged as it is in at least one of the great music schools in Russia. There the mornings are given to music, while general studies are taken up later in the day. It is really a serious problem, here in America, this fitting in music with other studies. Both public and private schools try to cover so much ground that there is very little time left for music or anything else. The music pupil also needs to know musical literature, history and biography, to be familiar with the lives and writings of the great composers. Take the letters and literary articles of Robert Schumann, for instance. How interesting and inspiring they are!
"In regard to methods in piano study my principles are based wholly upon my observations of Leschetizky's work with me personally, or with others. What I know he has taught me; what I have achieved I owe to him. My first eight weeks in Vienna were spent in learning, first, to control position and condition of hands and arms according to the law of balance; secondly, to direct each motion with the utmost accuracy and speed. To accomplish this I began with the most elementary exercises in five-finger position, using one finger at a time. Then came the principles of the scale, arpeggios, chords and octaves. All these things were continued until every principle was mastered. I practised at first an hour a day, then increased the amount as my hands grew stronger and the number of exercises increased.
"Next came the study of tone production in various forms, a good quality invariably being the result of a free condition of the arm combined with strength of fingers and hands.
"The Leschetizky principles seem to me the most perfect and correct in every particular. Yes, there are several books of the method, by different authors, but I teach the principles without a book. The principles themselves are the essential things. I aim to build up the hand, to make it strong and dependable in every part, to fill out the weak places and equalize it. That this may be thoroughly and successfully accomplished, I require that nothing but technical exercises be used for the first nine, ten, or twelve weeks. We begin with the simplest exercises, one finger at a time, then two, three and so on through the hand. I believe in thus devoting all the practise time to technic, for a certain period, so that the mind is free to master the principles, undisturbed by piece playing. When the principles have been assimilated, the attention can then be directed to the study of music itself. If any weak places appear in the hand from time to time, they can be easily corrected.
"If a pupil comes to me who has played a great deal but with no idea of the principles of piano playing, who does not know how to handle herself or the keyboard, it is absolutely necessary to stop everything and get ready to play. If you attempt even a simple sonata with no legato touch, no idea of chord or scale playing, you can not make the piece sound like anything. It is like a painter trying to paint without brushes, or an artist attempting to make a pen and ink drawing with a blunt lead pencil; to do good work you must have the tools to work with.
"For application of all principles, the studies of Czerny, Op. 299, 740, and others, offer unequaled opportunity. They are simple, direct, and give the student a chance for undivided attention to every position taken and to every motion made.
"What happens afterward is altogether according to the individual characteristics of the student. How to recognize these and deal with them to the best advantage is the interesting task of my great master (and those who try to follow in his steps)—the man of keenest intelligence, of profound learning and experience. To learn this lesson from him has been my greatest aim, and to see him at work, as it has been my privilege to do for several summers, has been of the greatest influence and inspiration in my own work.
"My chief endeavor is to create a desire for good musicianship. To this end I insist upon the study of theory, harmony, ear-training and analysis. In the piano lessons I do not have sufficient time to teach these things. I have assistant teachers who help me with these subjects and also with the technical training. Once a month during the season, my assistant teachers bring their pupils to play for me, and we have a class in piano teaching. There are sometimes eighteen or twenty students who come to a class. I can in this way supervise all the work done, and keep in touch with my teachers, their work, and with all the students.
"On the first Saturday of the month I have my own pupils here for a class; they play for me and for each other. Everything is played from memory, not a printed note is used. Students tell me it is very difficult to play here, where all listen so intently. Especially is it difficult the first time a student plays in class, to keep the mind wholly on what he is doing, with sufficient concentration. Later on, at the end of the season, it comes easier.
"This idea of separating the technical work at the outset from the study of music itself, secures, in my opinion, the most perfect foundation, and later on the best results. It is sometimes wonderful how, with proper training, the hand will improve and develop in a comparatively short time. I often marvel at it myself."
The writer had the privilege of being one of the guests at the last audition of the season. Eight or nine young artists played a long and difficult program. Among the numbers were a Beethoven sonata, entire; Chopin's Ballade in A flat major; Cesar Franck, Prelude, Fugue and Variations; a Mozart Fantaisie; Grieg Concerto, first movement; Weber's Concertstück, and Chopin's Scherzo in E. The recital was most instructive from an educational point of view. All the players had repose and concentration, and there were no noticeable slips, though every piece was played from memory. Hands were well arched at the knuckles, fingers curved—with adequate action at the knuckle joint; wrists in normal position, and extremely loose; the whole arm swung from the shoulder and poised over the keys, thus adjusting itself to every requirement of the composition. Every note had its amount of hand or arm weight. The tone quality was full and singing. These points were exemplified even in the playing of the youngest pupils. Furthermore they had an intelligent grasp of the meaning of the music they played, and brought it out with conviction, power, and brilliancy.
"The progressive teacher's method must be one of accretion," said Carl Roeder, when interviewed between lesson hours in his delightful studio in Carnegie Hall. "He gains ideas from many methods and sources, and these he assimilates and makes practical for his work. At the same time he must originate and work out things for himself. This has been my experience.
"I was something of a wonder child, and at an early age developed considerable facility and brilliancy. After knocking about as a pupil of various private teachers and conservatories, I became, while quite a young lad, the pupil of de Konstki, then a lion of the day." The speaker joined in the laugh his remark called up, which brought to mind the Chevalier's famous battle-horse, "The Awakening of the Lion."
"De Konstki's style was very brilliant and I endeavored to imitate him in this respect. I did quite a little concert work at that time. Realizing, however, that a pianist's income must be rather precarious, I decided to teach. In those youthful days I had the idea that the teacher of the piano had an easy life. I remembered one of my professors, a man of considerable reputation, who took the duties of his profession very lightly. His method of giving a lesson was to place the music upon the piano, start the pupil going, then retire to a comfortable couch, light his pipe and smoke at ease, troubling himself little about the pupil's doings, except occasionally to call out 'Falsch!'
"So I, too, began to teach the piano. But I soon discovered that teaching was something quite different from what I had imagined it to be, and that it was something I knew very little about. I now set myself to learn how to teach—how to help those pupils who came to me.
"One of my first discoveries was that most of the pupils were afflicted with stiff wrists and arms, and that this stiffness must be remedied. My own playing had always been free, due to one of my early teachers having thoroughly inculcated the principle of 'weight,' so often acclaimed in these days as a modern discovery. But how to bring about this condition in others was a great problem. I studied the Mason method, and found many helpful, illuminating ideas in regard to relaxation and devitalization. I had some lessons with S. B. Mills, and later did considerable valuable work with Paolo Gallico, who opened up to me the great storehouse of musical treasure, and revealed to me among other things the spiritual technic of the pianist's art. Subsequently I investigated the Virgil and Leschetizky methods. Mr. Virgil has done some remarkable things in the way of organizing and systematizing technical requirements, and for this we owe him much. Such analyses had not before been made with anything like the care and minuteness, and his work has been of the greatest benefit to the profession. My subsequent studies with Harold Bauer revealed him to be a deep musical thinker and a remarkable teacher of the meaning of music itself.
"In my teaching I follow many of the ideas of Leschetizky, modified and worked out in the manner which I have found most useful to my own technic and to that of my pupils. I have formulated a method of my own, based on the principles which form a dependable foundation to build the future structure upon. Each pupil at the outset is furnished with a blank book, in which are written the exercises thus developed as adapted to individual requirements.
"We begin with table work. I use about ten different exercises which embody, as it were, in a nutshell, the principles of piano playing. The hand is first formed in an arched position, with curved fingers, and solidified. The thumb has to be taught to move properly, for many people have never learned to control it at all.
"With the hand in firm, solid position, and the arm hanging freely from the shoulder, I begin to use combined arm and wrist movements, aiming to get the weight of the arm as well as its energy at the complete disposal of the finger tip. Each finger in turn is held firmly in a curved position and played with a rotary movement of arm and wrist. When this can be done we next learn hand action at the wrist from which results the staccato touch. In this form of hand staccato there is an element of percussion, as you see, but this element gives directness and precision to the staccato touch, which in my opinion are necessary. After this we come to finger action itself. This principle is taken up thoroughly, first with one finger, then with two, three, four, and five—in all possible combinations. In this way we come down from the large free-arm movements to the smaller finger movements; from the 'general to the particular,' instead of working from the smaller to the larger. I find it most necessary to establish relaxation first, then strengthen and build up the hand, before finger action to any extent is used. When these foundational points have been acquired, the trill, scales, arpeggios, chords, octaves and double notes follow in due course. At the same time the rhythmic sense is developed, all varieties of touch and dynamics introduced, and harmonic and structural analysis dwelt upon.
"Above the third or fourth grade I make frequent use of studies, selecting them from various books. Duvernoy, Op. 120; Berens, Op. 61; Czerny, Op. 740 I find far more interesting than the threadbare 299. Heller is indispensable, so melodious and musical. Arthur Foote's studies, Op. 27, are very useful; also MacDowell's, Op. 39 and 46. Sometimes I use a few of Cramer's and the Clementi 'Gradus,' though these seem rather old-fashioned now.
"For more advanced pupils I find Harberbier, Op. 53 especially applicable; there is beautiful work in them. Kessler, Op. 20, and the Moszkowski studies, Op. 72, have splendid material for the advanced player, and prepare for Henselt, Rubinstein, Chopin and Liszt études. I find that studies are valuable for application of technical principles, for reacting purposes, and for the cultivation of all the refinements of playing. Some teachers believe in applying the technic directly to pieces, and use almost no studies; but I think a study is often more valuable than a piece, because a definite technical principle is treated in every kind of way. Though I do not require studies to be memorized, they must be played with all the finish of a piece, if the pupil is to derive the maximum of benefit from them.
"As aids to my studies in the art of teaching, several books have been most helpful. Among these are two volumes by Dr. Herman H. Home, The Philosophy of Education, and The Psychology of Education. Another book, from which I have profited much is William James' Talks to Teachers on Psychology. Every teacher should possess it.
"You ask what method I pursue with new pupils who have played a great deal of music but with little idea of correct principles of piano study. Let us take, for instance, one who has had lessons for years but is in ignorance of first principles. Arms and wrists are stiff, hands and fingers held in cramped position; no freedom anywhere. My first move is to have the pupil stand and learn to relax arms, shoulders and body; then learn to breathe. But relaxation, even at first, is not the only thing; after devitalization comes organization, firmness and solidity—in the right places. It must be understood at the very beginning that piano playing is far more than sitting before the instrument working the fingers six or seven hours a day. The mechanical side is only preliminary. Some one has said that the factors in playing are a trinity of H's—head, hand and heart. I try at once to awaken thought, to give a wider outlook, to show that piano playing is the expression, through the medium of tone, of all that the poet, painter and philosopher are endeavoring to show through other means: to this end I endeavor to stimulate interest in the wonders of the visible universe, the intellectual achievements of men and the deep things of spiritual discernment.
"On this subject I think we should avoid pedantry; not to say to the pupil, you must play this piece a certain way; but rather say, I see or feel it in this way, and give the reasons underlying the conception. I believe the successful teacher should be a pianist. He should understand every point and be able to do the thing, else how can he really show the manner of the doing? Many of the nuances, subtleties of color and phrase, effects of charm or of bravura, cannot be explained; they must be illustrated. And furthermore, only he who has been over the road can be a safe or sympathetic guide. Tolstoi realized he could not be of service to the people he would uplift unless he lived among them, shared their trials and experienced their needs. The time has gone by when the musician and composer was considered a sort of freak, knowing music and nothing else. We know the great composers were men of the highest intelligence and learning, men whose aim was to work out their genius to the utmost perfection. Nothing less than the highest would satisfy them. As George Eliot said, 'Genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains.' Think of the care Beethoven took with every phrase, how many times he did it over, never leaving it till he was satisfied."
In speaking of the great European teachers Mr. Roeder continued:
"We hear much of the Leschetizky method; but with that master technic is quite a secondary matter over which, when once the principles are mastered, he troubles himself but little. It is the conception of the work as a whole which concerns him, how to project it, so to say, most effectively to an audience. He brings into prominence now this part, now that, accenting here, slightly exaggerating there, in order to make the picture more vivid to the listener. Harold Bauer is another illuminating master for those who have a technical equipment adequate to the performance of great works of piano literature. Some go to him who are not ready for what he has to give, but to those who can direct attention to the meaning of the music, he is a wonderful inspirational force. First he will point out a phrase here, another there, and so on through the piece, showing how the same idea takes on various aspects in the composer's thought. Then he shows how to gather up these different threads to form the perfect pattern which the author of the work had in mind; and finally the master teacher reaches down below the surface of form and design to the vital significance of the composition, and the disciple feels the glow and power of the revelation.
"There is no gainsaying the fact that this age is superficial, and the great office of art is to cultivate that idealism which will uplift and inspire. In an important sense the teacher must be a preacher of righteousness. He knows that 'beautiful things are fashioned from clay, but it has first to pass through the fire,' and only those who can endure that scorching can hope to achieve success.
"If asked to what extent a player's personality enters into the performance, my answer would be: Only in so far as the performance remains true to the composer's intention. So long as personality illumines the picture and adds charm, interest, and effectiveness to it, it is to be applauded; but when it obstructs the view and calls attention to itself it should not be tolerated. It is not art; it is vanity.
"Yes, I teach both high finger action and pressure touch, once the principle of arm weight is thoroughly established, although I use high finger action only to develop finger independence and precision, and for passages where sharp delineation is required. I believe in freedom of body, arm and wrist, a firm, solid arched hand and set fingers. That freedom is best which insures such control of the various playing members as to enable the player to produce at will any effect of power, velocity or delicacy desired; thereby placing the entire mechanical apparatus under complete subjection to the mind, which dominates the performance. In other words, I am neither an anarchist who wants no government, namely unrestrained devitalization, nor a socialist, whose cry is for all government—that is, restriction and rigidity. In piano playing, as in all else, 'Virtue is the happy mean between two vices.'"