where he was to give a recital. Just outside of the stage-entrance were
two young ladies, one of whom stepped forward and, handing me a sheet of
paper and a pencil, begged me to ask Rubinstein for his autograph, and
to leave it for her in the dressing-room, so that she could get it
after the recital. I told her that Rubinstein did not like writing
autographs; that he was a man of kindly disposition, but sometimes acted
from impulse; nevertheless, I would see what could be done. So,
following Rubinstein up-stairs to the retiring-room, I handed him the
writing materials, stating the young lady's request.
He took them, saying nothing, but walked with an air of determination to
the window, opened it, and threw them into the street "Mason," he said,
"I don't like your country. People pry too much into private affairs."
He then went on to speak of newspaper writers who had interviewed him
and ingeniously beguiled him into speaking of many things which
concerned solely his own personality, and the next day published all of
these things in detail. He said: "There is absolutely no privacy in this
country." "Rubinstein," I said, "I can quite appreciate your position,
and understand why you should have come to such conclusions, but I am
sure that upon due reflection you will realize that you are doing us an
injustice. You have been incessantly occupied during your sojourn here,
have hurried from place to place, given concerts with hardly any
intermission, and naturally have had no time to see people in their
homes. You have not been able to judge of our domestic life or to mingle
in society and study our habits." He admitted this at once and made due
acknowledgment. Wieniawski, who was once with us when a similar
conversation occurred just before the close of their stay here, said:
"Mason, I regret extremely that I have not been able to go out to Orange
to visit you. We have traveled constantly and rushed from place to place
in order to fulfil concert engagements, so that there has been no time
for social intercourse. I don't wish you to gather from my apparent
neglect an idea that Poles are unsociable; on the contrary, I assure you
we are very fond of social life."
Rubinstein came here with a great reputation, and achieved a good
success. He had transcendent ability, accompanied, however, by certain
limitations. By nature impulsive and excitable, he often lost
self-control, and in consequence he frequently anticipated his climax.
He was like a general who excelled in a brilliant sortie, but who had
not the dogged persistence necessary to a long-sustained battle, and at
the critical points he was constantly losing his self-poise. When,
however, he did effect a climax, it was apt to be a great one, a
jubilee. Liszt, on the other hand, was remarkable for his reserve force
and for the discretion with which he made use of it; for if, perchance,
he missed a climax he immediately made preparation for a new one, and
was always sure to reach the zenith at precisely the right moment.
There were occasions on which Rubinstein played with the most wonderful
repose, and at such times his playing was musical and poetic in the
highest degree. This was particularly the case in slow or moderate
movements characterized by tenderness, affection, and fervor. But in
the rapid and spirited movements his tendency was to run away and
finally to lose self-possession--an affliction to which the large
majority of concert pianists are subject. Violinists and singers are not
nearly so much so, because they can prolong their tones with steady
force, or diminish and increase the tone at will. As I have already
pointed out, the case is different with the pianist, for after the
piano-key has been struck the tone immediately begins to decrease in
power, and this incites the player to produce another tone; so he
proceeds a little too quickly, constantly gaining a little in speed and
crowding one tone upon the other. The effect is exasperating to the
listener, who becomes more and more restless, until finally all quiet
and repose is utterly lost.
The unevenness in Rubinstein's playing I believe to have been wholly due
to the temperamental moods of a man of extreme artistic sensitiveness.
He was a thoroughly conscientious artist and worked at the piano
incessantly many hours a day. I remember his once saying to me: "I
dislike nothing more than to have people say to me, as they frequently
do, 'But you do not have to practise, for you are a born genius and get
everything by nature.' It is provoking to listen to such stuff after
having worked so hard."
EVOLUTION IN MUSICAL IDEAS BEETHOVEN PIANOFORTE RECITALS
No pianist ever dreamed of playing Beethoven's sonatas in public in
those days. They were reserved for the parlor; and one, or two at most,
were enough for an evening. The mental absorption of this amount was
sufficient. Lighter pieces filled out the program. I am quite sure that
it was Bulow who first played several of Beethoven's sonatas
consecutively at a recital. I learned of this through Anton Rubinstein
when he was here in 1873. He spoke of it as being an extraordinary
thing, and added that, as a musician, he could not give it his approval.
It might be a scientific thing to do, but was certainly not congenial to
a true musical nature, which required variety. A dinner consisting of
heavy dishes throughout, without the interspersion of condiments,
vegetables, and tarts to stir and incite the appetite, would be both
distasteful and fatal to good digestion. The pieces selected for the
musical feast should be homogeneously arranged; and so should the
various courses of the dinner.
However, notwithstanding what Rubinstein said in 1873, I noticed that,
but a comparatively short time afterward, he also began the practice of
giving recitals at which he played several sonatas in sequence. It is
possible that he did this less to gratify his own personal artistic
tastes than in deference to those of the public who had not his musical
organization, and so could stand the intensity of the thing while he
profited by the physical practice.
RUBINSTEIN'S FAVORITE SEAT AT A PIANOFORTE RECITAL
Rubinstein, as a listener, was particular as to the location of his seat
at a concert or recital of pianoforte music, and always sought a place
in one of the galleries on the left hand, facing the stage. Thus he sat
in the corner diagonal to the pianoforte, looking over the right
shoulder of the player.
It is true that even on the ground floor or parterre of a hall this
position affords a great advantage, and the tones of the pianoforte are
essentially more full of resonance and musical tone than in any other
location. This may be accounted for on the theory that the raised lid of
the instrument deflects the sound in that direction. There is a
corresponding disadvantage in a position on the opposite side of the
house, especially if seated on the ground floor near the stage. I have
frequently tried both of these positions, and always with the same
result; hence I have learned to make due allowance in judging of the
pianist. A listener unaware of this difference may seriously err in
estimating the tone quality of the instrument.
BACH'S "TRIPLE CONCERTO" AND "LES AGREMENTS"
In Bach's time many embellishments were used in playing the clavichord.
They were all included under the general title _Les Agrements_, or, in
German, _Manieren_. Of these the mordent, almost identical with the
modern _Pralltriller_, was in most frequent use. It is quite a little
thing and simple enough, but there are few players who succeed in giving
it the right snap or rattle, without which its true significance is
wholly lost. I have already mentioned playing this concerto with
Klindworth and Pruckner at a court concert in Weimar. While previously
rehearsing it, Liszt was very particular in his directions, especially
regarding the mordents, and we did our best to follow them. Moreover,
Liszt was an authority. He always made thorough investigation of a
subject before expressing an opinion upon it, and he was very careful to
give a historically accurate and truthful rendering of these
old-fashioned ornaments. I afterward found that when three pianists
came together for the purpose of playing this concerto a good deal of
time was wasted in discussing the proper way of playing the mordent. It
was on the program of the Mason-Thomas matinees in New York more than
once, and on one occasion we had the assistance of the well-known
pianists Messrs. Timm and Scharfenberg. There was no friction at that
time, as the three performers were of one mind.
In May, 1873, Theodore Thomas arranged a grand musical festival in New
York, of which Rubinstein was the principal attraction. The "Triple
Concerto" was one of the features of the festival. Rubinstein played the
first piano, and Mills and I the other two.
The concerto has the accompaniment of a string quartet, which may be
doubled or increased to the size of a small orchestra if desired. It was
thought best to have a preliminary rehearsal for the three pianos alone,
and a time was appointed for our meeting together at my studio in
Steinway Hall. Mr. Thomas, not being familiar with the concerto, wished
to be present in order to become acquainted with it, and at the
appointed time was the first to make his appearance. I told him that
Rubinstein, not precise in historical methods, would play the mordents
in accordance with the mood in which he happened to be. "However," I
continued, "I have an old book by Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, published
in Berlin in 1765, in which he gives written examples of all of the
_Manieren_. We will show this to Rubinstein and have some fun. But I do
not propose to waste time in discussions. He can play as he likes, and
Mills and I will follow suit."
Rubinstein shortly made his appearance, and Mills came a little later. I
told Rubinstein about my ancient authority, adding that we should be
spared the tediousness of a discussion as to the manner of playing. "Let
me see the old book," said Rubinstein. Running over the leaves, he came
to the illustrations of the mordent. The moment his eyes fell upon them
he exclaimed: "All wrong; here is the way I play it," and going to the
piano, he played as follows:
[Illustration: Musical notation]
This is what Marpurg calls a kind of double mordent, or _Doppelschlag_.
The three keys are struck almost simultaneously, but the middle one only
is held down, while the upper and lower ones are immediately released,
thus producing the effect of a turn. The true way of playing the mordent
is thus:
[Illustration Musical notation]
However, we adopted Rubinstein's way without comment.
[Illustration: Autograph of Anton Rubinstein]
What I have written about Rubinstein and Bach's "Triple Concerto in D
Minor" recalls to my mind an occasion when I played it with Mr.
Boscovitz and Mme. Essipoff at the latter's last recital here, I think
in the year 1876. When, at the rehearsal, we came to discuss the
mordents, Essipoff exclaimed: "I cannot play those things; show me
how they are done." After repeated trials, however, she failed to get
the knack of playing them, as, indeed, so many pianists do, so at the
recital she omitted them and left their performance to Boscovitz and me.
I think the effect of the concerto was not marred by the omission. The
incident just related most not be construed as in any degree a
disparagement of Mme. Essipoff's playing; as an artist she belongs
easily in the first rank of women players and her style is charming.
In taking leave of my old book by Marpurg I present a specimen of advice
which he addresses to pianoforte-students, namely: "In regard to
deportment and manners [at the pianoforte], one should take care to
avoid making faces, bobbing the head, snorting, twisting the mouth,
gritting the teeth, and all such ridiculous things. In the absence of
the teacher, a pupil who has fallen into such ungainly habits can
correct them by means of a mirror placed in front on the music-rack."
The foregoing is as honest a translation from the German as I am able to
make. Daring a half-century's experience in pianoforte-teaching I do not
remember a single case among my pupils of one who stood in need of this
advice.
A SIGNIFICANT AUTOGRAPH FROM RUBINSTEIN
Just before leaving Weimar I had asked Rubinstein to write in my
autograph-book, and he immediately complied.
The theme, which he wrote in the key of E flat major, is characteristic
of him. It is strong and has a vigorous upward movement. It suggests the
young man just starting out in life, with the vitality and courage of
early manhood. It is dated "Weymar, le 5. Juin, 1854."
I did not see Rubinstein again until 1873, the year of his visit to this
country. Happening in his room one day with my book, the idea occurred
to me of asking him to write in it again, under his former signature.
For some reason he was averse to doing so, but finally consented. At a
glance the second theme seems like the first, but on examination the
difference will appear. He has transposed the theme to E flat minor, and
its character is entirely changed. The young man has reached the summit
of the hill and realizes that he is now upon the descent. The allegro
maestoso of former years has changed to an adagio, and, as Rubinstein
aptly writes, it is "not the same."
An autograph written for me by Joachim Raff is also interesting. On the
night before I left Weimar, June 25, 1854, Raff and I had supper at the
Erbprinz together, and as the evening wore on we somehow got into a
heated discussion about _Zukunftsmusik_, taking opposite sides. However,
as a matter of course, we made up before parting. He had previously
written his musical autograph in the book, but now he added a kind
thought to speed me on my way, namely: "That he may live well, work
well, and soon return to Weimar music. Mitternachtscheide."
RUBINSTEIN, PADEREWSKI, AND "YANKEE DOODLE"
Not long before Rubinstein's departure for Europe he wrote a large
number of variations on "Yankee Doodle," and meeting me shortly
afterward, he informed me of the fact, and added: "I have inscribed your
name at the head of the title-page, and they are now in the hands of the
publisher." He said further, and in a seemingly apologetic tone: "They
are good, I assure you, and I have taken much pleasure in writing them."
He played this composition at his farewell concert in New York, and in
point of fact the variations were very well made; but I think that much
of his playing at the concert referred to was improvised.
The second season Paderewski was here I sat next to him at a dinner
given just after his arrival. During conversation he said somewhat
suddenly: "Mr. Mason, I have just composed a fantasy on 'Yankee Doodle,'
and have dedicated it to you."
[Illustration: Autograph of I. J. Paderewski]
He looked at me, and thought he saw a curious expression in my
face,--although I was quite unaware of such a thing,--and continued,
"You don't like it!" "Oh, I do," I protested, "and esteem the dedication
as a great honor." "I see you don't," he said. "Well," I replied, "I
already have one 'Yankee Doodle' from Rubinstein, and was thinking that
the coincidence of your dedicating me another was very curious, that is
all. Let me explain to you that 'Yankee Doodle' does not stand in the
same relation to the United States as 'God Save the Queen' to England,
'Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser' to Austria, or the 'Marseillaise' to
France. 'Yankee Doodle' was written by an Englishman in derision of us."
I am afraid that my remarks discouraged him, for he never finished the
composition. He played it to me as far as he had progressed with it, and
it is certainly the best treatment of the theme I have ever heard. He
had given it respectability, and, indeed, he told me that he really
liked the tune.
MEETINGS WITH VON BUeLOW
Von Bulow, who had been a pupil of Liszt a year or two before my time,
would occasionally return to Weimar from his concert tours, and during
these visits I became well acquainted with him. In certain ways he was a
wonderful man. He had an extraordinary memory and remarkable technic. He
was invariably accurate and precise in his careful observance of rhythm
and meter by means of proper accentuation, and the clear phrasing
resulting therefrom made up a good deal for the absence of other
desirable features, for his playing was far from being impassioned or
temperamental. His Chopin-playing always impressed me as dry, and his
Beethoven interpretations lacked warmth and fervency.
I remember he once said to me: "Rubinstein can make any quantity of
errors during his performance, and nobody is disturbed by it; but if I
make a single mistake it will be noticed immediately by every one in
the audience, and the effect will be spoiled."
Personally, Von Bulow and I got along very well together. He always made
kind inquiry for me when he met common friends in Europe, and he once
presented me with an autograph of Brahms which he valued highly. The
following letter he wrote me shortly after his arrival in this country,
in response to an invitation to make me a few days' visit in Orange, New
Jersey, where I was then residing.
BOSTON, October 21, 1875.
MY DEAR COLLEAGUE: I have just now received your kind note, and
although I have not a single moment of leisure, I want to thank you
and to tell you how happy I should be to meet you again after
nearly a quarter of a century out of sight.
Alas! it is quite impossible for me to make you a visit before my
arrival in New York. I must work very hard in spite of a bad health
and a not at all Rubinstein-like constitution.
As this specimen of cablegrammatical shows, I am unable to express
myself in your language without a heap of wrong notes in every
line. It was but two years ago, when I made my first appearance in
old England (much less sympathetic to me than New England), that I
began to stammer the Anglo-Saxon idiom. Please kindly excuse the
shortness and weakness of my reply.
Many thousand most friendly compliments from our common co-pupil
Carl Klindworth,[3] whom I saw last summer in Tyrol; we often spoke
of you.
Yours most truly,
HANS VON BUeLOW.
I know from what Von Bulow himself told me that he accepted
philosophically the trouble between himself and his wife Cosima Liszt,
and her subsequent marriage to Wagner. Soon after he arrived in New
York, in 1876, I called on him, and during our conversation I broached
the subject in a tentative way. I was not sure that his feelings toward
Wagner were not so hostile that mention of the Bayreuth master would
have to be avoided, and I thought it just as well to arrive immediately
at a clear understanding of the matter.
[Illustration: Autograph of Hans von Bulow]
"Bulow," I said, "you will excuse me if I touch on a rather
delicate subject. Of course your friends abroad know just what your
present attitude is toward Wagner; but over here we know little or
nothing about it. Perhaps you would like to enlighten me. I hope,
however, I have not touched on a painful subject."
"Not at all," he exclaimed. "What happened was the most natural thing in
the world. You know what a wonderful woman Cosima is--such intellect,
such energy, such ambition, which she naturally inherits from her
father. I was entirely too small a personality for her. She required a
colossal genius like Wagner's, and he needed the sympathy and
inspiration of an intellectual and artistic woman like Cosima. That they
should have come together eventually was inevitable."
EDVARD GRIEG
On July 1, 1890, my daughter, sister-in-law, and I were in Bergen,
Norway, having just returned from a very pleasant trip to the North
Cape.
Being so near Grieg's home, an hour and a half's drive from Bergen, and
having received an invitation to visit him, we presented ourselves at
his "Villa Troldhangen" in the afternoon. The day was bright and lovely,
and thus we saw Grieg's place under the most favorable aspect. Our
reception by Mr. and Mrs. Grieg was most hospitable, and we felt
immediately at home. After half an hour's conversation, we all strolled
through the beautiful grounds, which in many places are thick with trees
and shrubs, while here and there are clearings through which the waters
of the fiord shine bright and clear. The wild flowers, with their rich,
brilliant colors, were especially attractive; indeed, this is everywhere
in Norway an attractive feature.
Mr. Grieg is a man of high intelligence and culture, and is thoroughly
natural and genial. I have very pleasant memories of our cordial
reception and delightful visit.
RATES OF TEMPO--THE PRESENT TIME COMPARED WITH FIFTY YEARS AGO
In recalling Liszt's playing I cannot help noticing the marked
difference in modern rates of tempo as compared with those which were
considered authentic fifty years ago. This is noticeable in many of
Chopin's compositions, especially the larger ones, such as the sonatas,
ballades, fantasies, etc., with all of which I am very familiar, having
heard them played not only by Liszt in Weimar, but in other German
cities, and by artists of the highest rank, many of whom were
contemporaries and personal friends of Chopin. They all seemed to adopt
a certain rate of speed, as if in conformity with the composer's
intention, and it was in agreement with my own intuitions. Dreyschock
and Liszt had often heard the composer play his own pieces and must
certainly have been familiar at least with his rates of tempo. I was
very close to the Chopin day, having been in Germany only a few months
when he died. Two of my teachers and nearly all of the musicians I had
met were his contemporaries and had heard him play his own compositions.
I certainly ought to have the Chopin traditions.
ELECTROCUTING CHOPIN
[Illustration: Autograph of Edvard Grieg]
The question is, Should Chopin be played in accordance with the spirit
of the time in which he lived, should his works be played in the tempo
in which he played them, or, because electricity has brought about so
many changes and has enabled us to do so many things much more rapidly
than formerly, should Chopin's music be electrified, or, as it seems to
me, electrocuted? I think there is a general tendency to play the rapid
movements in Chopin, and, in fact, in all composers not of the extreme
modern type, too fast. To play these movements rapidly and give the
phrases with absolute clearness, one must have such breadth, command of
rhythm, and repose in action that he can put the tones together like a
string of pearls, so that each is rounded into shape, and the
phrase is a complete and definite series of tones, and not like a lot of
over-boiled peas, so soft that they all mash together. In too rapid
playing the effect of speed is lost. The Chopin "Waltz in D Flat Major"
is often played much too fast. The theme is said to have been suggested
to the composer by a lap-dog in his room suddenly beginning to chase his
tail. Whether true or not, the story is suggestive. Destroy the contour
of that waltz by playing it at too high a rate of speed, and the dog is
no longer chasing his tail, but dashing aimlessly about the room.
Nor should the tempo be too slow. Slow movements are effective, but
sufficient animation must prevail to impart life and fervency to the
music. A stream may flow so sluggishly that the water loses its
clearness. This is not repose, but stagnation. During the musical season
of 1899-1900 in New York I heard modern pianists play some of Chopin's
compositions so slowly that the effect produced upon me was like that
of a music-box running down. One endures it for a while, but finally is
wrought up to such a feeling of impatience as to induce the exclamation,
"Either stop that thing altogether or wind it up."
TEMPO RUBATO
In modern times there is also a tendency to excessive use of tempo
rubato.
I have recently heard the second part, of Chopin's "C Sharp Minor
Scherzo"--the choral with arpeggio passages--played by a celebrated
pianist in such a way that, mathematically adjusted, about one measure
was added to every section of four.