perfection as any pianist I ever heard, while in other respects he
stands more nearly on a plane with Liszt than any other virtuoso since
Tausig. His conception of Beethoven combines the emotional with the
intellectual in admirable poise and proportion. Thus he plays with a big
warm heart as well as with a clear, calm, discriminative head; hence a
thoroughly satisfactory result.... In musical conception he is so
objective a player as to be faithful, true, and loving to his author,
but withal he has a spice of the subjective, which imparts to his
performance just the right amount of his own individuality.
"The heartfelt sincerity of the man is noticeable in all that he does
and his intensity of utterance easily accounts for the strong hold he
has over his audiences. Paderewski's playing presents the beautiful
contour of a living, vital organism.... It possesses that subtle quality
expressed in some measure by the German word _Sehnsucht_, and in English
as intensity of aspiration. This quality Chopin had, and Liszt
frequently spoke of it. It is the undefinable poetic haze with which
Paderewski invests and surrounds all that he plays which renders him so
unique and impressive among modern pianists."
The foregoing estimate represents the discrimination of an enthusiastic
admirer. Its value consists of its recognition of the power of
Paderewski's personality. No criticism of his technical mannerisms
alone--however much he may lay himself open to it--will give a true idea
of the great pianist. Among the many estimates of Paderewski written in
this country one of the most balanced and illuminative was penned by the
late Arthur Johnstone, for many years the musical critic of the
_Manchester Guardian_:--"Mr. Paderewski's distinguishing quality is a
certain extraordinary energy--not merely a one-sided physical, or even
a two-sided physical and intellectual, energy; it is of the fingers and
wrists, of the mind, the imagination, the heart and the soul, and it
makes Mr. Paderewski the most interesting of players, even though to the
extreme kind of specialist, absorbed in problems of tone production, he
is not the most absolute master of his instrument at the present day.
His art has a certain princely quality. It is indescribably _galant_ and
_chevaleresque_. He knows all the secrets of all the most subtle dancing
rhythms. He is a reincarnation of Chopin, with almost the added virility
of a Rubinstein. No wonder such a man fascinates, bewilders and enchants
the public! Greatly surpassed by Busoni in the interpretation of
Beethoven, by Pachmann in the touch that persistently draws forth
roundness, sweetness and fulness of tone, and by Godowsky in the mastery
of intricate line and the power of sucking out the very last drop of
melody from every part of a composition, Paderewski still remains the
most brilliant, fascinating and successfully audacious of present-day
performers, and in preferring him the general public is probably right,
though the keen student of the pianoforte in particular may learn more
from Godowsky, and the earnest lover of the musical classics in general,
more from Busoni."
In much the same vein I wrote of a recital held at St. James's Hall in
1901. "The fascination of Paderewski held criticism in check. I know
that his Beethoven in C was smallish Beethoven; that there were many
spots of virtuoso exaggeration of contrast; but I also know that the
_adagio molto_ had a poetry of expression which many better-balanced
pianists miss, and that the last movement had a growing power which
carried one away. I know, too, that Schumann's sonata in F sharp minor
was too exaggerated, that its force was often too febrile. I will even
admit that Paderewski's technique is not always as clear as it might be;
that for perfection of finger dexterity Rosenthal, Godowsky, Busoni and
Pachmann surpass him. If you press it, I will confess that Paderewski's
force is hysterical, an explosion of exacerbated nerves; that,
metaphorically, he has his back to the wall and with tight-drawn lips is
fighting for his life. His strength, you may say, is almost a weakness.
It has no reserve and occasionally it is perilously akin to ranting. He
is also too fond of unnecessary dynamic contrasts--the sign of the
virtuoso all the world over, whether he be a pianist or a chorus-master.
I would not even combat the assertion that he often allows a fastidious
brain to prompt new readings when novelty is unnecessary, and I must
admit that he has the abominable trick of opening his chords--the kind
of thing one expects in a third-rate pianist bidding for a cheap
popularity. Is the catalogue of defects full? If not, insert some more,
and then--
"Why, then, I will still assert that Paderewski is the greatest of
living pianists. He has what so many of them do not possess--a strong
individuality and real insight as a musical poet. D'Albert might play
that Beethoven sonata with a nicer balance and a more intellectual
grasp; but he would not create that glowing atmosphere. Paderewski's
reading cannot be held up as a model to young men and maidens. It was
very subjective. I do not ask Paderewski to be anything but himself, for
his self interests me. But, at any rate, the performances of Haydn's
Variations in F minor and Mozart's Rondo in A minor were perfect enough
in restraint and classical grace to rank as models. They seemed to me to
represent the normal Paderewski.
"And his Chopin playing particularly appeals to me. Pachmann, in the
lesser Chopin, and Godowsky as well, play with more polish of phrase,
and they have a more extended gamut of dynamic _nuances_; but neither
plays as a poet would play, and Chopin, with all his absolute musical
fastidiousness, was a poet. Pachmann is too pre-occupied with mere
beauty of tone and with the rhetoric of antithesis; Godowsky with the
perfection of finger technique. Busoni's Chopin playing can alone be
compared to Paderewski's, for Busoni has a poet's imagination. But
Paderewski has more emotional fibre." As a marginal note to this
criticism, it should be said that the pianist was not at his best in
that year. The tendency to nervous explosions was not so marked when he
visited us the following summer.
It must be confessed that Paderewski's repertoire is rather limited. He
never makes experiments with the compositions of new men, and I do not
remember if he has ever played anything of Alkans or of César Franck.
The plan of his programmes is apt to be stereotyped--a group of pieces
by Bach, Handel, Scarlatti--or other of the harpsichord composers; then
a sonata of Mozart or Beethoven, followed by the German romantic school,
and ending with Chopin, Liszt, and Rubinstein, or his own compositions.
Still, it is very difficult for a pianist to import novelty into the
programme of a recital, and until quite recently modern composers have
ignored the piano. But if Paderewski's repertoire is not very extended,
his sympathies are catholic enough. There is only one other pianist who
can be compared with him in this respect--Busoni. The rest have such
limitations of sympathy that one could wish they would follow Pachmann's
example and confine themselves to the composers they understand.
Paderewski is, perhaps, at his best in the playing of Chopin and Liszt,
and, at the other extreme, in his reproduction of the old harpsichord
music. The racial spirit in him, which I have already shown is a real
part of his composition, enables him to realise the bigger Chopin as no
other pianist realises him. In the Chopin which mainly demands agility
of finger and a refined sense of harmony, Busoni and Pachmann excel
Paderewski; but neither can play the great Scherzo in C sharp minor as
Paderewski plays it. His Beethoven is unequal. Sometimes, if in the
mood, he will give you a performance of one of the later sonatas which
cannot be surpassed for grandeur and glow of emotion (he could never be
a mere "classical" Beethoven player); at other times his readings are
rather small and not sufficiently architectural. He has done wonderful
things with the "Moonlight" and "Waldstein" sonatas, however. His
Beethoven is never uninteresting, and it is something that he spares us
the hard austerity of some of the Beethoven playing which is so highly
praised in these days.
It has been well said that Paderewski treats Bach as a modern
romanticist, following the example of Liszt in this. The Bach worshipper
of a certain type is not likely to admire Paderewski's readings, but the
pianist certainly does bring out all the beauty of the composer's music.
If Mme. Schumann's idea of her husband's music was right, then
Paderewski is apt to treat him too much as a virtuoso composer. His
playing is a trifle wanting in the true German reflectiveness, but the
romance is realised. The concerto is one of Paderewski's finest
achievements, however. When an appeal is not made to his Slav
temperament, Paderewski's mind seems to find most pleasure in the
refinement of Weber, Mendelssohn, and Mozart. He has done a great deal
to rehabilitate Mendelssohn. He made serious musicians ashamed of their
estimate of the "Variations Sérieuses," and he reset the exquisite gems
of melody enshrined in the "Songs without Words," made so dim by the
clumsy handling of generations of schoolgirls.
In all Paderewski does there is evidence of much musical thought. That
is to say, even when he treats a composition to a new, and, as it seems,
a sensational performance, the conception is consistent throughout. And
that is one of the reasons why the pianist carries you away even when he
runs counter to theories or prejudices. Your mind may be critically at
work throughout the whole performance, but you feel at the same time
that the player is not making a bid for the popularity of empty
sensationalism. Those who accuse him of that are wrong. They forget that
with all his intense quietude of manner, Paderewski is at heart a Pole,
and that the very nervous force which enables him to play with glowing
power is also apt to make him exaggerated and exuberant; but the musical
intellect has artistically planned out these outbursts, which are seldom
merely physical.
The weakness of his playing on its technical side lies in a tendency to
smudginess of execution. Paderewski cannot lay claim to the absolute
clearness of Busoni; nor has he the magical fingers of a Godowsky. But I
am not at all sure that the defects of his technique are not an
expression of his merits as a tone poet. It is inconceivable that a
player of Paderewski's fiery and nervous temperament should be a perfect
mechanician. Moreover, his lapses from technical rectitude are never
lapses from the higher technique of the piano. No pianist so well
understands how to produce beautiful tone; no pianist has such a variety
of touch; and none such a grasp of the art of pedalling and phrasing.
The Paderewski tone is a thing by itself. Above all, he is a master of
rhythm. The wonderful, subtle _nuances_ of _tempo rubato_ which
distinguish his playing are the expression of a genuine, musical nature.
Sometimes this extraordinary grasp of rhythm may lead him to attempt
effects which were not, perhaps, within his composer's intentions, but
they are musical effects and not merely capricious. In brief, Paderewski
appeals to lovers of music, not because he is the most wonderful player
of his instrument that has ever existed, but because he is a genuine
tone-poet, a man of exceptional nature and rare temperament.
Perhaps he has summed himself and his aims as well as any one else could
sum them up. "If I were asked," said the great pianist to an
interviewer, "to name the chief qualification of a great pianist, apart
from technical excellence, I should answer in a word, genius. That is
the spark which fires every heart, that is the voice which all men stop
to hear! Lacking genius, your pianist is simply a player--an artist,
perhaps--whose work is politely listened to or admired in moderation as
a musical _tour de force_. He leaves his hearers cold, nor is the appeal
which he makes through the medium of his art, a universal one. And here
let me say, referring to the celebrated 'paradox' of Diderot, that I am
firmly of the belief that the pianist, in order to produce the finest
and most delicate effects must feel what he is playing, identify himself
absolutely with his work, be in sympathy with the composition in its
entirety, as well as with its every shade of expression. Only so shall
he speak to that immense audience which ever depends on perfect art.
Yet--and here is a paradox indeed--he must put his own personality
resolutely, triumphantly into his interpretation of the composer's
ideas."
IX
AS COMPOSER
It will be remembered that Paderewski began his musical career with the
aim of being a composer, and through all the stress of his life as a
virtuoso he has never lost sight of that aim. Indeed, he has more than
once expressed the intention of retiring gradually from the concert
platform in order that he may devote all his time to composition. The
work he has already done is not to be passed over lightly as a pianist's
music. Paderewski has certainly more originality than Rubinstein, and as
he is now only in his forty-seventh year there is every possibility that
he will make a name for himself as composer. It has already been related
that Paderewski was by way of being a prodigy composer. At the early age
of seven he wrote a set of Polish dances, but none of his compositions
was published until he was twenty-two years of age. These early works,
numbering some forty pieces, include Mazardas, Polonaises, Krakowiaks,
and other Polish dances, a Caprice, an Intermezzo, a Sarabande, an
Elegy, and many Mélodies, all of them surcharged with national spirit.
It is facile criticism to trace the influence of Chopin in these
pianoforte pieces of Paderewski's, and it is too often forgotten that
many of the characteristics of the great composer's music were drawn
from Polish music. Paderewski himself once remarked on this point: "The
moment you try to be national, every one cries out that you are
imitating Chopin, whereas the truth is that Chopin adopted all the most
marked characteristics of our national music so completely that it is
impossible not to resemble him in externals, though your methods and
ideas may be absolutely your own."
[Illustration: IGNAZ PADEREWSKI
_From a bust by Mr. Emil Fuchs, reproduced by the kind permission of the
sculptor_]
Of the smaller compositions of Paderewski the most famous is, of course,
the Minuet, which has nothing in it of Polish colour, but is a charming
and skilful essay in the old style. A writer in a German periodical has
told an amusing, if apocryphal story of this Minuet. "When Paderewski
was a professor at the Warsaw Conservatoire, he was a frequent visitor
at my house, and one evening I remarked that no living composer could be
compared with Mozart. Paderewski's only reply was a shrug of the
shoulders, but the next day he came back, and, sitting down at the
piano, said, 'I should like to play you a little piece of Mozart's which
you perhaps do not know.' He then played the Minuet. I was enchanted
with it and cried, 'Now you will yourself acknowledge that nobody of our
time could furnish us with a composition like that.' 'Well,' answered
Paderewski, 'this Minuet is mine.'" The worthy German writer could have
had but a superficial knowledge of Mozart's style of harmony. But the
Minuet is certainly a charming little piece. Hardly less remarkable in
its daintiness is the "Chant du Voyageur," number 3 of Opus 8, and the
Thème Varié, Opus 11 is very skilful in its harmonic treatment of a
naïve, eighteenth century tune. The Variations and Fugue and Humoresques
à l'antique enable one to understand how Paderewski can play Scarlatti,
Couperin, and Rameau with such intimate sympathy. These works may be
said to represent one side of his talent, perhaps not the most original.
In direct contrast with them are his fiery Polish dances--his
Cracovienne and Polonaises. In his later compositions he has given up
his imitations of the antique and has been gradually finding his own
utterance in the idiom of national music. In his early life, however, he
composed a short sonata for violin and piano, which, as far as I know,
has not been performed in England; but, of course, the pianoforte sonata
in A minor, Op. 17, which was written when he was twenty-eight years of
age, is the most important contribution in a more or less "classical"
style which has come from his pen. It served to introduce Paderewski as
a composer to an English audience on the occasion of his first recitals
at St. James's Hall in 1890. "In point of form this Concerto," wrote Mr.
C. A. Barry in his analytical notes, "which is far more a matter of
evolution than a stringing together of tunes, closely follows the
traditionally classical lines, and is strikingly free from irrelevant
and episodical passages, except such as immediately grow out of the
subject-matter. In spirit it is strongly pervaded by the
characteristics of Polish national music, with its proud, chivalrous and
dreamy accents." Much of the music is of a virtuoso character, but the
Romanza, an Andante, is a little gem of inspiration, and the finale is
full of vivacity and spirit. Paderewski himself makes a very effective
composition of this Concerto.
A considerable period elapsed between the composition of the Concerto
(in 1888) and that of the Polish Fantasia, which was first performed at
the Norwich Festival of 1893. It was actually written in the summer in
that year. In this work national feeling is very strongly marked. This
betrays itself in the treatment, and in the themes, which although the
composer's own, are distinctly Polish in character. The work is full of
colour, picturesqueness and romance, and in general it has the air of a
Rhapsody. In the slow movement there is a power of combining themes
which Paderewski had not previously shown, and the orchestra is handled
with much skill both in the matter of instrumentation and in its
combination with the piano. The Fantasia, which was afterwards repeated
at a Philharmonic concert, placed the composer on a higher plane than
anything he had hitherto done.
That Paderewski did not mean to confine himself to compositions for the
piano and orchestra was soon proved by rumours of an opera on which he
was engaged. Nothing of importance came from his pen until "Manru" was
produced at Dresden on May 29, 1901, but the pianoforte score had been
finished as long ago as 1895. As Paderewski had not hitherto composed
anything of moment for the voice--his four songs, Op. 7, and the late
set of six which Mr. Edward Lloyd sang to the composer's accompaniment
are fanciful but of no great importance--there was much anticipation as
to the result of his new departure. It should be said that at one time
the composer was in negotiation with the late Sir Augustus Harris for
the production of the opera at Covent Garden, but he could not see his
way to accept the suggested alterations which the impresario thought
necessary. As a matter of fact most of these alterations were made when
the work was performed at Dresden. It was generally admitted, and the
criticism was upheld when "Manru" was mounted in New York in 1902, that
the opera suffers from its libretto.
The plot was borrowed from a Polish Romance, Kraszewski's "The Cabin
behind the Wood," by the librettist, Dr. Alfred Nossig and sets forth
how Manru, a gypsy, has won the love of a Galician maiden, Ulana, and
has married her in the gypsy fashion. On her return to her native place,
seeking her mother's forgiveness and help, she is received with
contumely and a mother's curse. Her kind friends prepare her for the
inconstancy of Manru by citing instances of the general fickleness in
love of all gypsies, and Ulana, in order to keep Manru's love, seeks the
help of Urok, a dwarf and magician who has the reputation of being a
sorcerer. By the aid of a magic draught she keeps Manru to her side for
a time, but the gypsy blood will out and, fascinated by a girl of his
own race, he rejoins his tribe. This is not to the liking of the gypsy
chief, Oros, who is in love with the same woman, Asa, and Manru's
rehabitation is opposed. Matters then become too complicated for opera,
and that is the weakness of the libretto. Oros finding his authority has
no weight with the tribe breaks his staff and Manru is proclaimed chief
in his stead. Ulana, in despair at the loss of her husband, hurls
herself over a precipice, and Oros coming secretly on Manru and his new
love Asa suddenly attacks his rival and throws him into the abyss. A
strain of symbolism runs though the story. Thus Manru is not merely
fickle, but is torn this way and that by his love for Ulana and his
racial passion for music. You may, if you choose, look on Ulana as the
embodiment of human love and Asa as representing the spiritual love of
the artist.
Dr. Schuch conducted the first performance at Dresden. Herr Anthes was
the Manru; Herr Scheidmantel was the Urok; Fraulein Krull the Urana and
Frau Kramma the Asa. The reception of the work was cordial but it does
not seem to have been enthusiastic. Some of the critics were reminded of
Bizet; others noted a strong likeness to Wagner; and through all the
note of Polish music was detected. As the work has never been performed
on the English stage it is not easy to say how it would shape as an
opera. The vocal score has not been published. A concert performance of
some of the chief scenes was given, however, at the Crystal Palace, on
December 13, 1902, Signor Randegger conducted and Fraulein Krull came
from Germany to sing the soprano music. Mr. John Coates sang the music
of Manru. The excerpts consisted of a duet from Act II. with Ulana's
cradle song; the prelude and incidental music from Act III. with Manru's
long soliloquy "Luft, luft! Ich ersticke," and a gypsy march; the love
duet of Manru and Ulana from Act II., and the ballet music from Act I.
As the programme also contained the Concerto and the Polish Fantasia we
were able to form some opinion of Paderewski as a serious composer.
"The connection of the music of 'Manru' with these concertos," I wrote
at the time in the _Daily News_, "must have struck the dullest ears....
So far the music has a style of its own. But it struck me that in the
vocal selection from 'Manru' the folk-song element did not mix well with
sundry Wagnerisms of which Paderewski has made use. Thus in the scene
from Act II., Manru, who is watching Ulana nursing her child, hesitates
between expressing himself in the mode of a Slavonic folk-song and in
the style of Siegfried's forging outbursts. The orchestra has no
hesitation at all, but plumps for Wagner. Paderewski is most
interesting to me when he forgets all he knows of Wagner. The folk
cradle-song of Ulana, for instance, is more genuine music than Manru's
long monologue 'Luft! luft!' from Act III. which is full of Wagnerian
mannerisms, culled from Hans Sachs' monologues and elsewhere. Again, the
ambitious love duet from Act II. does not make its mark. Paderewski has
not yet the strength of technique for a love duet conceived more or less
on the lines of the 'Tristan' love duet. The vocal parts have not
striking enough intervals. The writing for the voices and orchestra is
too close, and, in general the part writing does not move with
sufficient freedom. The concert room performance of selections from
operas is a great test of their absolute musical qualities, a test which
very few works can stand in part, and none altogether. For that reason
one cannot come to any very definite opinion of the 'Manru' music. The
rushing of the strings up and down the chromatic scale, the free use of
muted horns, of gong and cymbals struck with a drumstick, sound
theatrical in a concert room, but they might pass as effective in the
opera-house. And I should think Paderewski has musically caught the
atmosphere of the story. Certainly he has in the orchestral description
of Manru's dream, in which the memories of his love jostle with his
gypsy desire to wander free and untrammelled. The Gypsy March, with
which the scene ends, is also striking. In fact, all the music which has
a folk-song character is successful; and perhaps on the opera-stage the
second-hand Wagnerisms would not be so noticeable."