Chapter 11

"It is difficult to define such a comprehensive term as technic, for it means so much," remarked Germaine Schnitzer the French pianist to me one day, when we were discussing pianistic problems. "There is no special sort or method of technic that will do for all players, for every mentality is different; every hand is peculiar to itself, and different from every other. Not only is each player individual in this particular, but one's right hand may differ from one's left; therefore each hand may require separate treatment.

"An artistic technic can be acquired only by those who have an aptitude for it, plus the willingness to undertake the necessary drudgery; practise alone, no matter how arduous, is not sufficient. Technic is evolved from thought, from hearing great music, from much listening to great players; intent listening to one's own playing, and to the effects one strives to make. It is often said that the pianist cannot easily judge of the tonal effects he is producing, as he is too near the instrument. With me this is not the case. My hearing is so acute that I know the exact dynamics of every tone, every effect of light and shade; thus I do not have to stand at a distance, as the painter does, even if I could do so, in order to criticize my work, for I can do this satisfactorily at close range.

"I hardly know when I learned technic; at all events it was not at the beginning. At the start I had some lessons with quite a simple woman teacher. We lived near Paris, and my elder sister was then studying with Raoul Pugno; she was a good student and practised industriously. She said she would take me to the master, and one day she did so. I was a tiny child of about seven, very small and thin--not much bigger than a fly. The great man pretended he could hardly see me. I was perched upon the stool, my feet, too short to reach the floor, rested on the extension pedal box which I always carried around with me, I went bravely through some Bach Inventions. When I finished, Pugno regarded me with interest. He said he would teach me; told me to prepare some more Inventions, some Czerny studies and the Mendelssohn Capriccio, Op. 22, and come to him in four weeks. Needless to say, I knew every note of these compositions by heart when I took my second lesson. Soon I was bidden to come to him every fortnight, then every week, and finally he gave me two lessons a week.

"For the first five years of my musical experience, I simply played the piano. I played everything--sonatas, concertos--everything; large works were absorbed from one lesson to the next. When I was about twelve I began to awake to the necessity for serious study; then I really began to practise in earnest. My master took more and more interest in my progress and career: he was at pains to explain the meaning of music to me--the ideas of the composers. Many fashionable people took lessons of him, for to study with Pugno had become a fad; but he called me his only pupil, saying that I alone understood him. I can truly say he was my musical father; to him I owe everything. We were neighbors in a suburb of Paris, as my parents' home adjoined his; we saw a great deal of him and we made music together part of every day. When he toured in America and other countries, he wrote me frequently; I could show you many letters, for I have preserved a large number--letters filled with beautiful and exalted thoughts, expressed in noble and poetic language. They show that Pugno possessed a most refined, superior mind, and was truly a great artist.

"I studied with Pugno ten years. At the end of that time he wished me to play for Emil Saur. Saur was delighted with my work, and was anxious to teach me certain points. From him I acquired the principles of touch advocated by his master, Nicholas Rubinstein. These I mastered in three months' time, or I might say in two lessons.

"According to Nicholas Rubinstein, the keys are not to be struck with high finger action, nor is the direct end of the finger used. The point of contact is rather just back of the tip, between that and the ball of the finger. Furthermore we do not simply strive for plain legato touch. The old instruction books tell us that legato must be learned first, and is the most difficult touch to acquire. But legato does not bring the best results in rapid passages, for it does not impart sufficient clarity. In the modern idea something more crisp, scintillating and brilliant is needed. So we use a half staccato touch. The tones, when separated a hair's breadth from each other, take on a lighter, more vibrant, radiant quality; they are really like strings of pearls. Then I also use pressure touch, pressing and caressing the keys--feeling as it were for the quality I want; I think it, I hear it mentally, and I can make it. With this manner of touching the keys, and this constant search for quality of tone, I can make any piano give out a beautiful tone, even if it seems to be only a battered tin pan.

TONE WHICH VIBRATES THROUGH THE WHOLE BODY

"Weight touch is of course a necessity; for it I use not only arms and shoulders, but my whole body feels and vibrates with the tones of the piano. Of course I have worked out many of these principles for myself; they have not been acquired from any particular book, set of exercises, or piano method; I have made my own method from what I have acquired and experienced in ways above mentioned.

ON MEMORIZING

"In regard to memorizing piano music I have no set method. The music comes to me I know not how. After a period of deep concentration, of intent listening, it is mine, a permanent possession. You say Leschetizky advises his pupils to learn a small portion, two or four measures, each hand alone and away from the piano. Other pianists tell me they have to make a special study of memorizing. All this is not for me--it is not my way. When I have studied the piece sufficiently to play it, I know it--every note of it. When I play a concerto with orchestra I am not only absolutely sure of the piano part, but I also know each note that the other instruments play. Of course I am listening intently to the piano and to the whole orchestra during a performance; if I allowed myself to think of anything else, I should be lost. This absolute concentration is what conquers all difficulties.

ABSTRACT TECHNIC

"About practising technic for itself alone: this will not be necessary when once the principles of technic are mastered. I, at least, do not need to do so. I make, however, various technical exercises out of all difficult passages in pieces. I scarcely need to look at the printed pages of pieces I place on my recital programs. I have them with me, to be sure, but they are seldom taken out of their boxes. What I do is to think the pieces through and do mental work with them, and for this I must be quiet and by myself. An hour's actual playing at the piano each day is sufficient to prepare for a recital.

"It must not be thought that I do not study very seriously. I do not work less than six hours a day; if on any day I fail to secure this amount of time, I make it up at the earliest moment. During the summer months, when I am preparing new programs for the next season, I work very hard. As I said, I take the difficult passages of a composition and make the minutest study of them in every detail, making all kinds of technical exercises out of a knotty section, sometimes playing it in forty or fifty different ways. For example, take the little piece out of Schumann's _Carneval_, called 'The Reconnaissance.' That needed study. I gave three solid days to it; that means from nine to twelve in the morning, and from one to five in the afternoon. At the end of that time I knew it perfectly and was satisfied with it. From that day to this I have never had to give a thought to that number, for I am confident I know it utterly. I have never had an accident to that or to any of my pieces when playing in public. In my opinion a pianist has a more difficult task to accomplish than any other artist. The singer has to sing only one note at a time; the violinist or 'cellist need use but one hand for notes. Even the orchestral conductor who aspires to direct his men without the score before him, may experience a slip of memory once in awhile, yet he can go on without a break. A pianist, however, has perhaps half a dozen notes in each hand to play at once; every note must be indelibly engraved on the memory, for one dares not make a slip of any kind.

"An artist playing in London, Paris or New York--I class these cities together--may play about the same sort of programs in each. The selections will not be too heavy in character. In Madrid or Vienna the works may be even more brilliant. It is Berlin that demands heavy, solid meat. I play Bach there, Beethoven and Brahms. It is a severe test to play in Berlin and win success.

"I have made several tours in America. This is a wonderful country. I don't believe you Americans realize what a great country you have, what marvelous advantages are here, what fine teachers, what great orchestras, what opera, what audiences! The critics, too, are so well informed and so just. All these things impress a foreign artist--the love for music that is here, the knowledge of it, and the enthusiasm for it. A worthy artist can make a name and success in America more quickly and surely than in any country in the world.

"For one thing America is one united country from coast to coast, so it is much easier getting about here than in Europe. For another thing I consider you have the greatest orchestras in the world, and I have played with the orchestras of all countries. I also find you have the most enthusiastic audiences to be found anywhere.

"In Europe a musical career offers few advantages. People often ask my advice about making a career over there, and I try to dissuade them. It sometimes impresses me as a lions' den, and I have the desire to cry out 'Beware' to those who may be entrapped into going over before they are ready, or know what to expect. Of course there are cases of phenomenal success, but they are exceptions to the general rule.

"People go to Europe to get atmosphere (stimmung)--that much abused term! I could tell them they make their own atmosphere wherever they are. I have lived in music all my life, but I can say I find musical atmosphere right here in America. If I listen to the Boston Symphony Orchestra, or to the Kneisel Quartet, when these organizations are giving an incomparable performance of some masterpiece, I am entirely wrapt up in the music; am I not then in a musical atmosphere? Or if I hear a performance of a Wagner opera at the Metropolitan, where Wagner is given better even than in Bayreuth, am I not also in a musical atmosphere? To be sure, if I am in Bayreuth I may see some reminiscences of Wagner the man, or if I am in Vienna I can visit the graves of Beethoven and Schubert. But these facts of themselves do not create a musical atmosphere.

"You in America can well rejoice over your great country, your fine teachers and musicians and your musical growth. After a while you may be the most musical nation in the world."

XXVIII

OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH

CHARACTERISTIC TOUCH ON THE PIANO

Arthur Hochman, Russian pianist and composer, once remarked to me, in reference to the quality of tone and variety of tonal effects produced by the various artists now before the public:

"For me there is one pianist who stands above them all--his name is Gabrilowitsch."

The quality of tone which this rare artist draws from his instrument, is unforgettable. I asked him one morning, when he was kind enough to give me the opportunity for a quiet chat, how he produced this luscious singing quality of tone.

"A beautiful tone? Ah, that is difficult to describe, whether in one hour or in many hours. It is first a matter of experiment, of individuality, then of experience and memory. We listen and create the tone, modify it until it expresses our ideal, then we try to remember how we did it.

"I cannot say that I always produce a beautiful tone; I try to produce a characteristic tone, but sometimes it may not be beautiful: there are many times when it may be anything but that. I do not think there can be any fixed rule or method in tone production, because people and hands are so different. What does for one will not do for another. Some players find it easier to play with high wrist, some with low. Some can curve their fingers, while others straighten them out. There are of course a few foundation principles, and one is that arms and wrists must be relaxed. Fingers must often be loose also, but not at the nail joint; that must always be firm. I advise adopting the position of hand which is most comfortable and convenient. In fact all forms of hand position can be used, if for a right purpose, so long as the condition is never cramped or stiff. I permit either a high or low position of the wrist, so long as the tone is good. As I said, the nail joint must remain firm, and never be crushed under by the weight of powerful chords, as is apt to be the case with young players whose hands are weak and delicate.

TECHNICAL STUDY

"Yes, I am certainly in favor of technical practise outside of pieces. There must be scale and arpeggio study, in which the metronome can be used. But I believe in striving to make even technical exercises of musical value. If scales are played they should be performed with a beautiful quality and variety of tone; if one attempts a Czerny etude, it should be played with as much care and finish as a Beethoven sonata. Bring out all the musical qualities of the etude. Do not say, 'I'll play this measure sixteen times, and then I'm done with it.' Do nothing for mechanical ends merely, but everything from a musical standpoint. Yes, I give some Czerny to my students; not many etudes however. I prefer Chopin and Rubinstein. There is a set of six Rubinstein Studies which I use, including the Staccato Etude.

"In regard to technical forms and material, each player may need a different tonic. I have found many useful things in a work by your own Dr. William Mason, _Touch and Technic_. I have used this to a considerable extent. To my knowledge he was the first to illustrate the principle of weight, which is now pretty generally accepted here as well as in Europe.

"An ancient and famous philosopher, Seneca, is said to have remarked that by the time a man reaches the age of twenty-five, he should know enough to be his own physician, or he is a fool. We might apply this idea to the pianist. After studying the piano for a number of years he should be able to discover what sort of technical exercises are most beneficial; if he cannot do so he must be a fool. Why should he always depend on the exercises made by others? There is no end to the list of method books and technical forms; their name is legion. They are usually made by persons who invent exercises to fit their own hands; this does not necessarily mean that they will fit the hands of others. I encourage my pupils to invent their own technical exercises. They have often done so with considerable success, and find much more pleasure in them than in those made by others.

"Two of the most important principles in piano playing are: full, round, exact tone; distinct phrasing. The most common fault is indistinctness--slurring over or leaving out notes. Clearness in piano playing is absolutely essential. If an actor essays the role of Hamlet, he must first of all speak distinctly and make himself clearly understood; otherwise all his study and characterization are in vain. The pianist must likewise make himself understood; he therefore must enunciate clearly.

VELOCITY

"You speak of velocity as difficult for some players to acquire. I have found there is a general tendency to play everything too fast, to rush headlong through the piece, without taking time to make it clear and intelligible. When the piece is quite clear in tone and phrasing, it will not sound as fast as it really is, because all the parts are in just relation to each other. As an illustration of this fact, there is a little Gavotte of mine, which I had occasion to play several times in Paris. A lady, a very good pianist, got the piece, learned it, then came and asked me to hear her play it. She sat down to the piano, and rushed through the piece in a way that so distorted it I could hardly recognize it. When she finished I remonstrated, but she assured me that her tempo was exactly like mine as she had heard me play the piece three times. I knew my own tempo exactly and showed her that while it did not differ so greatly from hers, yet my playing sounded slower because notes and phrasing were all clear, and everything rightly balanced.

POWER

"How do I gain power? Power does not depend on the size of the hand or arm; for persons of quite small physique have enough of it to play with the necessary effect. Power is a nervous force, and of course demands that arms and wrists be relaxed. The fingers must be so trained as to be strong enough to stand up under this weight of arms and hands, and not give way. I repeat, the nail joint must remain firm under all circumstances. It is so easy to forget this; one must be looking after it all the time.

MEMORIZING

"In regard to memorizing, I have no special rule or method. Committing to memory seems to come of its own accord. Some pieces are comparatively easy to learn by heart; others, like a Bach fugue, require hard work and close analysis. The surest way to learn a difficult composition, is to write it out from memory. There is a great deal of benefit in that. If you want to remember the name of a person or a place, you write it down. When the eye sees it, the mind retains a much more vivid impression. This is visual memory. When I play with orchestra, I of course know every note the orchestra has to play as well as my own part. It is a much greater task to write out a score from memory than a piano solo, yet it is the surest way to fix the composition in mind. I find that compositions I learned in early days are never forgotten, they are always with me, while the later pieces have to be constantly looked after. This is doubtless a general experience, as early impressions are most enduring.

"An orchestral conductor should know the works he conducts so thoroughly that he need not have the score before him. I have done considerable conducting the past few years. Last season I gave a series of historical recitals, tracing the growth of the piano concerto, from Mozart down to the present. I played nineteen works in all, finishing with the Rachmaninoff Concerto."

Mr. Gabrilowitsch has entirely given up teaching, and devotes his time to recital and concert, conducting, and composing.

HANS VON BUeLOW AS TEACHER AND INTERPRETER

Those who heard Hans von Buelow in recital during his American tour, in 1876, listened to piano playing that was at once learned and convincing. A few years before, in 1872, Rubinstein had come and conquered. The torrential splendor of his pianism, his mighty crescendos and whispering diminuendos, his marvelous variety of tone--all were in the nature of a revelation; his personal magnetism carried everything before it. American audiences were at his feet.

In Von Buelow was found a player of quite a different caliber. Clarity of touch, careful exactness down to the minutest detail caused the critics to call him cold. He was a deep thinker and analyzer; as he played one saw, as though reflected in a mirror, each note, phrase and dynamic mark of expression to be found in the work. From a Rubinstein recital the listener came away subdued, awed, inspired, uplifted, but disinclined to open the piano or touch the keys that had been made to burn and scintillate under those wonderful hands. After hearing Von Buelow, on the other hand, the impulse was to hasten to the instrument and reproduce what had just seemed so clear and logical, so simple and attainable. It did not seem to be such a difficult thing to play the piano--like _that_! It was as though he had said: "Any of you can do what I am doing, if you will give the same amount of time and study to it that I have done. Listen and I will teach you!"

Von Buelow was a profound student of the works of Beethoven; his edition of the sonatas is noted for recondite learning, clearness and exactness in the smallest details. Through his recitals in America he did much to make these works better known and understood. Nor did he neglect Chopin, and though his readings of the music of the great Pole may have lacked in sensuous beauty of touch and tone, their interpretation was always sane, healthy, and beautiful.

Toward the end of a season during the eighties, it was announced that Von Buelow would come to Berlin and teach an artist class in the Klindworth Conservatory. This was an unusual opportunity to obtain lessons from so famous a musician and pedagogue, and about twenty pianists were enrolled for the class. A few of these came with the master from Frankfort, where he was then located.

Carl Klindworth, pianist, teacher, critic, editor of Chopin and Beethoven, was then the Director of the school. The two men were close friends, which is proved by the fact that Von Buelow was willing to recommend the Klindworth Edition of Beethoven, in spite of the fact that he himself had edited many of the sonatas. Another proof is that he was ready to leave his work in Frankfort, and come to Berlin, in order to shed the luster of his name and fame upon the Klindworth school--the youngest of the many musical institutions of that music-ridden, music-saturated capital.

* * * * *

It was a bright May morning when the Director entered the music-room with his guest, and presented him to the class. They saw in him a man rather below medium height, with large intellectual head, beneath whose high, wide forehead shone piercing dark eyes, hidden behind glasses.

He bowed to the class, saying he was pleased to see so many industrious students. His movements, as he looked around the room, were quick and alert; he seemed to see everything at once, and the students saw that nothing could escape that active mentality.

The class met four days in each week, and the lessons continued from nine in the morning until well on toward one o'clock. It was announced that only the works of Brahms, Raff, Mendelssohn and Liszt would be taught and played, so nothing else need be brought to the class; indeed Brahms was to have the place of honor.

While many interesting compositions were discussed and played, perhaps the most helpful thing about these hours spent with the great pedagogue was the running fire of comment and suggestion regarding technic, interpretation, and music and musicians in general. Von Buelow spoke in rapid, nervous fashion, with a mixture of German and English, often repeating in the latter tongue what he had said in the former, out of consideration for the Americans and English present.