Part 4

"I mean this," he would answer: "Before your fingers touch the keys you must begin the piece mentally--that is, you must have settled in your mind the _tempo_, the manner of touch, and, above all, the attack of the first notes, before your actual playing begins. And by-the-bye, what is the character of this piece? Is it dramatic, tragic, lyric, romantic, humourous, heroic, sublime, mystic--what? Well, why don't you speak?"

Generally I would mutter something after such a tirade, but usually I said something stupid because of the awe with which he inspired me. Finally, after trying several of his suggested designations I would hit it right. Then he would say: "Well, there we are at last! Humourous, is it? Very well! And rhapsodical, irregular--hey? You understand the meaning?" I would answer, "Yes."

"Very well, then," he would reply; "now prove it." And then I would begin all over again.

He would stand at my side, and whenever he wanted a special stress laid upon a certain note his powerful fingers would press upon my left shoulder with such force that I would stab the keys till the piano fairly screamed for me. When this did not have the effect he was after he would simply press his whole hand upon mine, flattening it out and spreading it like butter all over the keys, black and white ones, creating a frightful cacophony. Then he would say, almost with anger, "But cleaner, cleaner, cleaner," as if the discord had been of my doing.

Such occurrences did not lack a humourous side, but their turn into the tragical always hung by a hair, especially if I had tried to explain or to make excuses. So I generally kept silent, and I found, after some experience, that was the only proper thing for me to do. For just as quickly as he would flare up he would also calm down again, and when the piece was ended I would hear his usual comment: "You are an excellent young man!" And how quickly was all pain then forgotten!

I remember on one occasion that I played Schubert-Liszt's "Erl-König." When I came to the place in the composition where the Erl-King says to the child, "Thou dear, sweet child, oh, come with me," and I had played several false notes besides very poor arpeggios, Rubinstein asked me: "Do you know the text at this place?"

As a reply I quoted the words.

"Very well, then," he said, "the Erl-King addresses the child; Erl-King is a spirit, a ghost--so play this place in a spiritlike way, ghostly, if you will, but not ghastly with false notes!"

I had to laugh at his word-play and Rubinstein himself chimed in, and the piece was saved, or rather the player. For when I repeated that particular part it went very well, and he allowed me to continue without further interruption.

Once I asked him for the fingering of a rather complex passage.

"Play it with your nose," he replied, "but make it sound well!"

This remark puzzled me, and there I sat and wondered what he meant.

As I understand it now he meant: Help yourself! The Lord helps those who help themselves!

As I said before, Rubinstein never played for me the works I had to study. He explained, analysed, elucidated everything that he wanted me to know; but, this done, he left me to my own judgment, for only then, he would explain, would my achievement be my own and incontestable property. I learned from Rubinstein in this way the valuable truth that the conception of tone-pictures obtained through the playing of another gives us only transient impressions; they come and go, while the self-created conception will last and remain our own.

Now, when I look back upon my study-days with Rubinstein, I can see that he did not so much instruct me as that I learned from him. He was not a pedagogue in the usual meaning of that word. He indicated to me an altitude offering a fine view, but how I was to get up there was my affair; he did not bother about it. "Play with your nose!" Yes--but when I bumped it till it fairly bled where would I get the metaphorical handkerchief? In my imagination! And he was right.

To be sure, this method would not work with all pupils, but it is nevertheless well calculated to develop a student's original thought and bring out whatever acumen he may possess. If such a one succeeded by his own study and mental force to reach the desired point which the great magician's wizardry had made him see, he had gained the reliance in his own strength: he felt sure that he would always find that point again--even though he should lose his way once or twice, as every one with an honest aspiration is liable to do.

I recall that Rubinstein once said to me: "Do you know why piano-playing is so difficult? Because it is prone to be either affected or else afflicted with mannerisms; and when these two pitfalls are luckily avoided then it is liable to be--dry! The truth lies between those three mischiefs!"

When it was settled that I should make my Hamburg début under his baton with his own D-minor Concerto, I thought the time had come at last to study with him one of his own works. So I proposed it, but Rubinstein disposed of it! I still see him, as if it were but yesterday, seated in the greenroom of the Berlin Philharmonic during an intermission in his concert (it was on a Saturday) and telling me: "We shall appear together in Hamburg on Monday." The time was short, but I knew the Concerto and hoped to go through it with him some time in the remaining two days. I asked his permission to play the Concerto for him, but he declined my urgent request, saying: "It is not necessary; we understand each other!" And even in this critical moment he left me to my own resources. After the last (and only) rehearsal the great master embraced me before the whole orchestra, and I--well, I was not in the seventh, but in the "eighth" heaven! Everything was all right, I said to myself, for Rubinstein, Rubinstein was satisfied! The public simply had to be! The concert went off splendidly.

After that memorable début in Hamburg, which was on March 14, 1894, I went directly to see Rubinstein, little dreaming that my eyes would then see him for the last time. I brought with me a large photograph of himself, and, though fully aware of his unconquerable aversion to autographing, my desire for the possession of his signature overruled my reluctance and I made my request.

He raised both fists and thundered, half-angry and half-laughing: "_Et tu, Brute?_"

But my wish was granted, and I reproduce the portrait in this article.

Then I asked him when I should play for him again, and to my consternation he answered: "Never!"

In my despair I asked him: "Why not?"

He, generous soul that he was, then said to me: "My dear boy, I have told you all I know about legitimate piano-playing and music-making"--and then changing his tone somewhat he added: "And if you don't know it _yet_, why, go to the devil!"

I saw only too well that while he smiled as he said it he meant it seriously, and I left him.

I never saw Rubinstein again. Soon after that he returned to his villa in Peterhof, near St. Petersburg, and there he died on November 19, 1894.

The effect that his death had upon me I shall never forget. The world appeared suddenly entirely empty to me, devoid of any interest. My grief made me realise how my heart had worshipped not only the artist in him but also the man; how I loved him as if he were my father. I learned of his death through the English papers while I was _en route_ from London to Cheltenham, where I was booked for a recital on the twentieth. The B-flat minor Sonata by Chopin happened to be on the programme, and as I struck the first notes of the Funeral March the whole audience rose from their seats as if by command and remained standing with bowed heads during the whole piece--in honour of the great departed.

A singular coincidence occurred at my concert on the preceding day--the day of Rubinstein's death.

On this day I played for the first time in public after my seven years' retirement (excepting my Hamburg début). It was in London. In this concert I played, as a novelty, a Polonaise in E-flat minor which Rubinstein had but recently written in Dresden and dedicated to me. He had included it in the set called "Souvenirs de Dresde." This piece has throughout the character of a Funeral March in all but the time-division. Little did I dream while I was playing it that day that I was singing him into his eternal rest, for it was but a few hours later that, in the far East of Europe, my great master passed away, suddenly, of heart failure.

Two years later I played this same Polonaise for the second and last time. It was on the anniversary of his death, in St. Petersburg, where in honour of his memory I gave a recital, the proceeds of which I devoted to the Rubinstein Fund. Since then I have played this piece only once, at home and to myself, excluding it entirely from my public répertoire. For, though it was dedicated to me, the time and circumstances of its initial performance always made me feel as if it still belonged to my master, or, at best, as if it were something personal and private between us two.

Indispensables in Pianistic Success

I

"The Indispensables in Pianistic Success? Are not the indispensables in all success very much the same? Nothing can take the place of real worth. This is especially true of America, in which country I have lived longer than in any other, and which I am glad to call my home. Americans are probably the most traveled people of the world, and it is futile to offer them anything but the best. Some years ago a conductor brought to this country an orchestra of second-class character, with the idea that the people would accept it just because it bore the name of a famous European city which possessed one of the great orchestras of the world. It was a good orchestra, but there were better orchestras in American cities, and it took American audiences just two concerts to find this out, resulting in a disastrous failure, which the conductor was man enough to face and personally defray. The American people know the best, and will have nothing but the best. Therefore, if you would make a list of the indispensables of pianistic success in this country at this time you must put at the head of your list, REAL WORTH.

"Naturally, one of the first indispensables would include what many term 'the musical gift.' However, this is often greatly misunderstood. We are, happily, past the time when music was regarded as a special kind of divine dispensation, which, by its very possession, robbed the musician of any claim to possible excellence in other lines. In other words, music was so special a gift that it was even thought by some misguided people to isolate the musician from the world--to make him a thing apart and different from other men and women of high aspirations and attainments.

"It is true that there have been famous prodigies in mathematics, and in games such as chess, who have given evidence of astonishing prowess in their chosen work, but who, at the same time, seem to have been lamentably under-developed in many other ways. This is not the case in music at this day at least, for, although a special love for music and a special quickness in mastering musical problems are indispensable, yet the musicians are usually men and women of broad cultural development if they desire it and are willing to work for it.

"Nor can I concede that a very finely developed sense of hearing is in all cases essential. The possession of what is known as absolute pitch, which so many seem to think is a sure indication of musical genius, is often a nuisance. Schumann did not possess it, and (unless I am incorrectly informed) Wagner did not have absolute pitch. I have it, and can, I believe, distinguish differences of an eighth of a tone. I find it more disturbing than beneficial. My father had absolute pitch in remarkable fashion. He seemed to have extremely acute ears. Indeed, it was often impossible for him to identify a well-known composition if he heard it played in a different key--it sounded so different to him. Mozart had absolute pitch, but music, in his day, was far less complicated. We now live in an age of melodic and contrapuntal intricacy, and I do not believe that the so-called acute sense of hearing, or highly developed sense of absolute pitch, has very much to do with one's real musical ability. The physical hearing is nothing; the spiritual hearing--if one may say so--is what really counts. If, in transposing, for instance, one has associated the contents of a piece so closely with its corresponding tonality that it is hard to play in any other tonality, this constitutes a difficulty--not an advantage.

II

"Too much cannot be said about the advantage of an early drill. The impressions made during youth seem to be the most lasting. I am certain that the pieces that I learned before I was ten years of age remain more persistently in my memory than the compositions I studied after I was thirty. The child who is destined for a musical career should receive as much musical instruction in early life as is compatible with the child's health and receptivity. To postpone the work too long is just as dangerous to the child's career as it is dangerous to overload the pupil with more work than his mind and body can absorb. Children learn far more rapidly than adults--not merely because of the fact that the work becomes more and more complicated as the student advances, but also because the child mind is so vastly more receptive. The child's power of absorption in music study between the ages of eight and twelve is simply enormous; it is less between twelve and twenty; still less between twenty and thirty, and often lamentably small between thirty and forty. It might be represented by some such diagram as:

30 to 40 years of age Limited Receptivity Limited Results --------------------------------------------------------------- 20 to 30 } Still Less Accomplishment years of age } --------------------------------------------------------------- 12 to 20 } Less Accomplishment years of age } --------------------------------------------------------------- 8 to 12 } years } Greatest Receptivity of } Greatest Accomplishment age } ---------------------------------------------------------------

"Of course, these lines are only comparative, and there are exceptional cases of astonishing development late in life, due to enormous ambition and industry. Yet the period of highest achievement is usually early in life. This is especially true in the arts where digital skill is concerned.

"All teachers are aware of the need for the best possible drill early in life. The idea one so often hears expressed in America: 'Since my daughter is only beginning her studies--any teacher will do,' has been the source of great laxity in American musical education. If the father who has such an idea would only transpose the same thought to the building of a house he would be surprised to find himself saying: 'Since I am only laying a foundation, any kind of trashy material will do. I will use inferior cement, plaster, stone, bricks, decayed wood and cheap hardware, and employ the cheapest labor I can procure. But when I get to the roof I shall engage the finest roofmakers in the world!'

"The beginning is of such tremendous importance that only the best is good enough. By this I do not mean the most expensive teacher obtainable, but someone who is thorough, painstaking, conscientious, alert and experienced. The foundation is the part of the house in which the greatest strength and thoroughness is required. Everything must be solid, substantial, firm and secure, to stand the stress of use and the test of time. Of course, there is such a thing as employing a teacher with a big reputation and exceptional skill, who would make an excellent teacher for an advanced student, but who might be incapable of laying a good foundation for the beginner. One wants strength at the foundation--not gold ornaments and marble trimmings and beautiful decorations, fretwork, carving. Just as in great cities one finds firms which make a specialty of laying foundations for immense buildings, so it is often wise to employ a teacher who specializes in instructing beginners. In European music schools this has almost always been the case. It is not virtuosity that is needed in the makeup of the teacher of beginners, but rather sound musicianship, as well as the comprehension of the child psychology. Drill, drill, and more drill, is the secret of the early training of the mind and hand. This is indicated quite as much in games such as tennis, billiards and golf. Think of the remarkable records of some very young players in these games, and you will see what may be accomplished in the early years of the young player.

"In all arts and sciences, as one advances, complications and obstacles seem to multiply in complexity until the point of mastery is reached; then the tendency seems to reverse itself, until a kind of circle carries one round again to the point of simplicity. I have often liked to picture this to myself in this way:

"It is encouraging for the student to know that he must expect to be confronted with ever-increasing difficulties, until he reaches the point where all the intense and intricate problems seem to solve themselves, dissolving gradually into the light of a clear understanding day. This is to me a general principle underlying almost all lines of human achievement, and it appears to me that the student should learn its application, not only to his own but to other occupations and attainments. This universal line of life, starting with birth, mounting to its climax in middle life, and then passing on to greater and greater simplicity of means, until at death the circle is almost completed, is a kind of human program which all successful men would appear to follow. Perhaps we can make this clearer by studying the evolution of the steam engine.

"The steam engine started with the most primitive kind of apparatus. At the very first it was of the turbine type. Hero of Alexander (Heron, in Greek) made the first steam engine, which was little more than a toy. According to some historians, Heron lived in the second century before Christ, and according to others his work was done in the latter half of the first century. He was an ingenious mathematician who often startled the people of this time with his mechanical contrivances. It is difficult to show the principle of his engine in an exact drawing; but the following indicates in a crude way the application of steam force something after the manner in which Heron first applied it.

"A is a retort containing water, which is heated to steam, which issues from the tube at B and is caught in the wheel in such a manner that the wheel revolves. The principle is simplicity itself; and the noteworthy fact is that--primitive as it is--it has the characteristic principle involved in the turbine engine of to-day. After Heron many others attempted to use controlled steam to produce force, until, in 1764, James Watt made discoveries which paved the way for the modern steam engine, constituting him virtually the inventor of the type. Thereafter, the machinery became more and more complicated and enormous in size. Double, triple and quadruple expansion types were introduced until, at the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia, in 1876, a giant engine was exhibited by Corliss--a marvelous engine, with many elaborate details. Then, having reached the maximum curve of complexity, engine construction became more and more simple, and now we have turbine engines, such as the Parsons engines, which are all far smaller and simpler than their grandfathers of the seventies, but at the same time vastly more powerful and efficient.

III

"In the art of piano playing we have much the same line of curve. At first there was childlike simplicity. Then, with the further development of the art, we find the tendency toward enormous technical accomplishment and very great complexity. Fifty years ago technic was everything. The art of piano playing was the art of the musical speedometer--the art of playing the greatest number of notes in the shortest possible time. Of course, there were a few outstanding giants, Rubinsteins, Liszts and Chopins, who made their technic subordinate to their message; but the public was dazzled with technic--one might better say pyrotechnics. Now we find the circle drawing toward the point of simplicity again. Great beauty, combined with adequate technic, is demanded rather than enormous technic divorced from beauty.

"Technic represents the material side of art, as money represents the material side of life. By all means achieve a fine technic, but do not dream that you will be artistically happy with this alone. Thousands--millions--of people believe that money is the basis of great happiness, only to find, when they have accumulated vast fortunes, that money is only one of the extraneous details which may--or may not--contribute to real content in life.

"Technic is a chest of tools from which the skilled artisan draws what he needs at the right time for the right purpose. The mere possession of the tools means nothing; it is the instinct--the artistic intuition as to when and how to use the tools--that counts. It is like opening the drawer and finding what one needs at the moment.

"There is a technic which liberates and a technic which represses the artistic self. All technic ought to be a means of expression. It is perfectly possible to accumulate a technic that is next to useless. I recall the case of a musician in Paris who studied counterpoint, harmony and fugue for eight years, and at the end of that time he was incapable of using any of his knowledge in practical musical composition. Why? Because he had spent all of his time on the mere dry technic of composition, and none in actual composition. He told me that he had been years trying to link his technic to the artistic side of things--to write compositions that embodied real music, and not merely the reflex of uninspired technical exercises. I am a firm believer in having technic go hand in hand with veritable musical development from the start. Neither can be studied alone; one must balance the other. The teacher who gives a pupil a long course in strict technic unbroken by the intelligent study of real music, is producing a musical mechanic--an artisan, not an artist.

"Please do not quote me as making a diatribe against technic. I believe in technic to the fullest extent in its proper place. Rosenthal, who was unquestionably one of the greatest technicians, once said to me: 'I have found that the people who claim that technic is not an important thing in piano playing simply do not possess it.' For instance, one hears now and then that scales are unnecessary in piano practice. A well-played scale is a truly beautiful thing, but few people play them well because they do not practice them enough. Scales are among the most difficult things in piano playing; and how the student who aspires to rise above mediocrity can hope to succeed without a thorough and far-reaching drill in all kinds of scales, I do not know. I do know, however, that I was drilled unrelentingly in them, and that I have been grateful for this all my life. Do not despise scales, but rather seek to make them beautiful.