Every great master has written some works that are, and some_Piano Playing, with Piano Questions Answered

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[Illustration: _Josef Hofmann_]

PIANO PLAYING

With Piano Questions Answered

JOSEF HOFMANN

renewed 1937 by J. Hofmann.

by J. Hofmann.

1947 by Josef Hofmann.

Piano Playing

TO MY DEAR FRIEND

CONSTANTIN VON STERNBERG

CONTENTS

PAGE

A FOREWORD xv

THE PIANO AND ITS PLAYER 3

GENERAL RULES 19

CORRECT TOUCH AND TECHNIC 34

THE USE OF THE PEDAL 41

PLAYING "IN STYLE" 49

HOW RUBINSTEIN TAUGHT ME TO PLAY 57

INDISPENSABLES IN PIANISTIC SUCCESS 70

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

_Josef Hofmann_ _Frontispiece_

FACING

PAGE

_The Position of the Hand_ 20

_Incorrect Way to Play an Octave_ 28

_Correct Way to Play an Octave_ 28

_Incorrect Position of the Little Finger_ 29

_Correct Position of the Little Finger_ 29

_Incorrect Position of Thumb_ 38

_Correct Position of Thumb_ 38

_Incorrect Position of the Feet_ 42

_Correct Position of the Feet on the Pedal_ 43

_Anton Rubinstein_ 58

_How Rubinstein Taught Me to Play_ 59

A FOREWORD

This little book purposes to present a general view of artistic

piano-playing and to offer to young students the results of such

observations as I have made in the years of my own studies, as well as

of the experiences which my public activity has brought me.

It is, of course, only the concrete, the material side of piano-playing

that can be dealt with here--that part of it which aims to reproduce in

tones what is plainly stated in the printed lines of a composition. The

other, very much subtler part of piano-playing, draws upon and, indeed,

depends upon imagination, refinement of sensibility, and spiritual

vision, and endeavours to convey to an audience what the composer has,

consciously or unconsciously, hidden _between_ the lines. That almost

entirely psychic side of piano-playing eludes treatment in literary form

and must, therefore, not be looked for in this little volume. It may

not be amiss, however, to dwell a moment upon these elusive matters of

aesthetics and conception, though it be only to show how far apart they

are from technic.

When the material part, the technic, has been completely acquired by the

piano student, he will see a limitless vista opening up before him,

disclosing the vast field of artistic interpretation. In this field the

work is largely of an analytical nature and requires that intelligence,

spirit, and sentiment, supported by knowledge and aesthetic perception,

form a felicitous union to produce results of value and dignity. It is

in this field that the student must learn to perceive the invisible

something which unifies the seemingly separate notes, groups, periods,

sections, and parts into an organic whole. The spiritual eye for this

invisible something is what musicians have in mind when they speak of

"reading between the lines"--which is at once the most fascinating and

most difficult task of the interpretative artist; for, it is just

between the lines where, in literature as in music, the soul of a work

of art lies hidden. To play its notes, even to play them correctly, is

still very far from doing justice to the life and soul of an artistic

composition.

I should like to reiterate at this point two words which I used in the

second paragraph: the words "consciously or unconsciously." A brief

comment upon this alternative may lead to observations which may throw a

light upon the matter of reading between the lines, especially as I am

rather strongly inclining toward the belief in the "unconscious" side of

the alternative.

I believe that every composer of talent (not to speak of genius) in his

moments of creative fever has given birth to thoughts, ideas, designs

that lay altogether beyond the reach of his conscious will and control.

In speaking of the products of such periods we have hit upon exactly the

right word when we say that the composer "has surpassed himself." For,

in saying this we recognise that the act of surpassing one's self

precludes the control of the self. A critical, sober overseeing of one's

work during the period of creation is unthinkable, for it is the fancy

and the imagination that carries one on and on, will-lessly,

driftingly, until the totality of the tonal apparition is completed and

mentally as well as physically absorbed.

Now, inasmuch as the composer's conscious will takes little or no part

in the creating of the work, it seems to follow that he is not,

necessarily, an absolute authority as to the "only correct way" of

rendering it. Pedantic adherence to the composer's own conception is, to

my mind, not an unassailable maxim. The composer's way of rendering his

composition may not be free from certain predilections, biases,

mannerisms, and his rendition may also suffer from a paucity of

pianistic experience. It seems, therefore, that to do justice to the

work itself is of far greater importance than a slavish adherence to the

composer's conception.

Now, to discover what it is, intellectually or emotionally, that hides

itself between the lines; how to conceive and how to interpret it--that

must ever rest with the reproductive artist, provided that he possesses

not only the spiritual vision which entitles him to an individual

conception, but also the technical skill to express what this individual

conception (aided by imagination and analysis) has whispered to him.

Taking these two conditions for granted, his interpretations--however

punctiliously he adhere to the text--will and must be a reflex of his

breeding, education, temperament, disposition; in short, of all the

faculties and qualities that go to make up his personality. And as these

personal qualities differ between players, their interpretations must,

necessarily, differ in the same measure.

In some respects the performance of a piece of music resembles the

reading of a book aloud to some one. If a book should be read to us by a

person who does not understand it, would it impress us as true,

convincing, or even credible? Can a dull person, by reading them to us,

convey bright thoughts intelligibly? Even if such a person were drilled

to read with outward correctness that of which he cannot fathom the

meaning, the reading could not seriously engage our attention, because

the reader's want of understanding would be sure to effect a lack of

interest in us. Whatever is said to an audience, be the speech literary

or musical, must be a free and individual expression, governed only by

general or is it aesthetic laws or rules; it must be free to be artistic,

and it must be individual to have vital force. Traditional conceptions

of works of art are "canned goods," unless the individual happens to

concur with the traditional conception, which, at best, is very rarely

the case and does not speak well for the mental calibre of the easily

contented treader of the beaten path.

We know how precious a thing is freedom. But in modern times it is not

only precious, it is also costly; it is based upon certain possessions.

This holds as good in life as in art. To move comfortably with freedom

in life requires money; freedom in art requires a sovereign mastery of

technic. The pianist's artistic bank-account upon which he can draw at

any moment is his technic. We do not gauge him by it as an artist, to be

sure, but rather by the use he makes of it; just as we respect the

wealthy according to the way in which they use their money. And as there

are wealthy people that are vulgar, so there may be pianists who,

despite the greatest technic, are not artists. Still, while money is to

a gentleman perhaps no more than a rather agreeable adjunct, technic is

to the pianist's equipment an indispensable necessity.

To assist young students in acquiring this necessity, the following

articles were written for _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and for this form

I have gone over them and corrected and amplified. I sincerely hope that

they will help my young colleagues to become free as piano-playing

musicians first, and that this, in its turn and with the help of good

fortune in their career, will bring them the means to make them equally

free in their daily life.

JOSEF HOFMANN.

Piano Playing

THE PIANO AND ITS PLAYER

The first requisite for one who wishes to become a musicianly and

artistic pianist is a precise knowledge of the possibilities and

limitations of the piano as an instrument. Having properly recognised

them both, having thus staked off a stretch of ground for his activity,

he must explore it to discover all the resources for tonal expression

that are hidden within its pale. With these resources, however, he must

be contented. He must, above all, never strive to rival the orchestra.

For there is no necessity to attempt anything so foolish and so futile,

since the gamut of expressions inherent to the piano is quite extensive

enough to vouchsafe artistic results of the very highest order,

provided, of course, that this gamut is used in an artistic manner.

THE PIANO AND THE ORCHESTRA

From one point of view the piano can claim to be the equal of the

orchestra; namely, in so far as it is--no less than the orchestra--the

exponent of a specific branch of music which, complete by itself,

reposes upon a literature exclusively its own and of a type so

distinguished that only the orchestra can claim to possess its peer. The

great superiority of the literature of the piano over that of any other

single instrument has, to my knowledge, never been disputed. I think it

is equally certain that the piano grants to its players a greater

freedom of expression than any other instrument; greater--in certain

respects--than even the orchestra, and very much greater than the organ,

which, after all, lacks the intimate, personal element of "touch" and

the immediateness of its variegated results.

In dynamic and colouristic qualities, on the other hand, the piano

cannot bear comparison with the orchestra; for in these qualities it is

very limited indeed. The prudent player will not go beyond these limits.

The utmost that the pianist can achieve in the way of colour may be

likened to what the painters call "monochrome." For in reality the

piano, like any other instrument, has only one colour; but the artistic

player can subdivide the colour into an infinite number and variety of

shades. The virtue of a specific charm, too, attaches as much to the

piano as to other instruments, though, perhaps, in a lesser degree of

sensuousness than to some others. Is it because of this lesser sensuous

charm that the art of the piano is considered the chastest of all

instruments? I am rather inclined to think that it is, partly at least,

due to this chastity that it "wears" best, that we can listen longer to

a piano than to other instruments, and that this chastity may have had a

reflex action upon the character of its unparagoned literature.

For this literature, though, we have to thank the pianists themselves,

or, speaking more precisely, we are indebted to the circumstance that

the piano is the only single instrument capable of conveying the

complete entity of a composition. That melody, bass, harmony,

figuration, polyphony, and the most intricate contrapuntal devices

can--by skilful hands--be rendered simultaneously and (to all intents

and purposes) completely on the piano has probably been the inducement

which persuaded the great masters of music to choose it as their

favourite instrument.

It may be mentioned at this point that the piano did not have the effect

of impairing the orchestration of the great composers--as some musical

wiseacres assert from time to time--for they have written just as fine

works for a variety of other instruments, not to speak of their

symphonies. Thus has, for instance, the most substantial part of the

violin literature been contributed by piano-players (Bach, Mozart,

Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Bruch, Saint-Saens, Tschaikowski, and

many others). As to the literature of the orchestra, it came almost

exclusively from those masters whose only, or chiefest, medium of

musical utterance was the piano. Highly organised natures, as they were,

they liked to dress their thoughts, sometimes, in the colour splendour

of the orchestra. Looking at the depth of their piano works, however, at

their sterling merit, at their poetry, I feel that even a refined

musical nature may find lifelong contentment in the piano--despite its

limitations--if, as I said before, the artist keeps within its

boundaries and commands its possibilities. For it is, after all, not so

very little that the piano has to offer. It is both governed and

manipulated by one and the same mind and person; its mechanism is so

fine and yet so simple as to make its tone response quite as direct as

that of any other stringed instrument; it admits of the thoroughly

personal element of touch; it requires no auxiliary instruments (for

even in the Concerto the orchestra is not a mere accompanist but an

equal partner, as the name "Concerto" implies); its limitations are not

as bad as those of some other instruments or of the voice; it outweighs

these limitations very fairly by the vast wealth of its dynamic and

touch varieties. Considering all these and many other points of merit, I

think that a musician may be pretty well satisfied with being a pianist.

His realm is in more than one respect smaller than that of the

conductor, to be sure, but on the other hand the conductor loses many

lovely moments of sweet intimacy which are granted to the pianist when,

world-oblivious and alone with his instrument he can commune with his

innermost and best self. Consecrated moments, these, which he would

exchange with no musician of any other type and which wealth can neither

buy nor power compel.

THE PIANO AND THE PLAYER

Music makers are, like the rest of mankind, not free from sin. On the

whole, however, I think that the transgressions of pianists against the

canons of art are less grave and less frequent than those of other music

makers; perhaps, because they are--usually--better grounded as musicians

than are singers and such players of other instruments as the public

places on a par with the pianists I have in mind. But, while their sins

may be less in number and gravity--let it be well understood that the

pianists are no saints. Alas, no! It is rather strange, though, that

their worst misdeeds are induced by that very virtue of the piano of

requiring no auxiliary instruments, of being independent. If it were not

so; if the pianist were compelled always to play in company with other

musicians, these other players might at times differ with him as to

conception, tempo, etc., and their views and wishes should have to be

reckoned with, for the sake of both equilibrium and--sweet peace.

Left entirely to himself, however, as the pianist usually is in his

performances, he sometimes yields to a tendency to move altogether too

freely, to forget the deference due to the composition and its creator,

and to allow his much-beloved "individuality" to glitter with a false

and presumptuous brightness. Such a pianist does not only fail in his

mission as an interpreter but he also misjudges the possibilities of the

piano. He will, for instance, try to produce six _forte-s_ when the

piano has not more than three to give, all told, except at a sacrifice

of its dignity and its specific charm.

The extremest contrasts, the greatest _forte_ and the finest _piano_,

are given factors determined by the individual piano, by the player's

skill of touch, and by the acoustic properties of the hall. These given

factors the pianist must bear in mind, as well as the limitations of

the piano as to colour, if he means to keep clear of dilettanteism and

charlatanry. A nice appreciation of the realm over which he rules, as to

its boundaries and possibilities, must be the supreme endeavour of every

sovereign--hence also of every sovereign musician.

Now, I hear it so often said of this and that pianist that "he plays

with _so_ much feeling" that I cannot help wondering if he does not,

sometimes at least, play with "_so_ much feeling" where it is not in the

least called for and where "_so_ much feeling" constitutes a decided

trespass against the aesthetic boundaries of the composition. My

apprehension is usually well founded, for the pianist that plays

_everything_ "with so much feeling" is an artist in name only, but in

reality a sentimentalist, if not a vulgar sensationalist or a ranter

upon the keyboard. What sane pianist would, for instance, attempt to

play a cantilena with the same appealing sensuousness as the most

mediocre 'cellist can do with the greatest ease? Yet many pianists

attempt it; but since they are fully aware that they can never attain

such ends by legitimate, artistic means, they make either the

accompaniment or the rhythm, if not the phrasing, bear the brunt of

their palpable dilettanteism. Of such illusory endeavours I cannot warn

too strongly, for they are bound to destroy the organic relation of the

melody to its auxiliaries and to change the musical "physiognomy" of a

piece into a--"grimace:" This fault reveals that the pianist's

spirit--of adventure--is too willing, but the flesh--of the fingers and

their technic--too weak.

The artistic and the dilettantic manners of expression must be sharply

differentiated. They differ, principally, as follows: the artist knows

and feels how far the responsiveness of his instrument, at any

particular part of his piece, will allow him to go without violating

aesthetics, and without stepping outside of the nature of his instrument.

He shapes his rendition of the piece accordingly and practises wise

economy in the use of force and in the display of feeling. As to

feeling, _per se_, it is the ripe product of a multitude of aesthetic

processes which the moment creates and develops; but the artist will

keep this product from asserting itself until he has complied with every

requirement of artistic _workmanship_; until he has, so to speak,

provided a cleanly covered and fully set table upon which these matters

of "feeling" appear as finishing, decorative touches, say, as flowers.

The dilettante, on the other hand, does not consume any time by thinking

and planning; he simply "goes for" his piece and, without bothering

about workmanship or squirming around it as best he may, he rambles off

into--"feeling," which in his case consists of naught but vague,

formless, aimless, and purely sensuous sentimentality. His accompaniment

drowns the melody, his rhythm goes on a sympathetic strike, dynamic and

other artistic properties become hysterical; no matter, he--"feels"! He

builds a house in which the cellar is under the roof and the garret in

the basement.

Let it be said in extenuation of such a player that he is not always and

seldom wholly to blame for his wrong-doing. Very often he strays from

the path of musical rectitude because of his misplaced trust in the

judgment of others, which causes him to accept and follow advice in

good faith, instead of duly considering its source. For, under certain

conditions, the advice of even a connoisseur may be wrong. Many

professional and well-equipped critics, for instance, fall into the bad

habit of expecting that a pianist should tell all he knows in every

piece he plays, whether the piano does or does not furnish the

opportunities for displaying all his qualities. They expect him to show

strength, temperament, passion, poise, sentiment, repose, depth, and so

forth, in the first piece on his programme. He must tell his whole

story, present himself at once as a "giant" or "Titan" of the piano,

though the piece may call for naught but tenderness. With this demand,

or the alternative of a "roasting," public artists are confronted rather

frequently. Nor is this, perhaps, as much the fault of the critic as of

the conditions under which they must write. From my own experience and

that of others I know that the critics in large cities are so

overburdened with work during the season that they have seldom time to

listen to more than one piece out of a whole recital programme. After

such a mere sample they form their opinions--so momentous for the

career of a young pianist--and if this one piece happened to offer no

opportunities to the pianist to show himself as the "great" So-and-so,

why, then he is simply put down as one of the "littlefellows." It is no

wonder that such conditions tempt many young aspirants to public renown

to resort to aesthetic violence in order to make sure of "good notices";

to use power where it is not called for; to make "feeling" ooze from

every pore; to double, treble the tempo or vacillate it out of all

rhythm; to violate the boundaries of both the composition and the

instrument--and all this for no other purpose than to show as quickly as

possible that the various qualities are "all there." These conditions

produce what may be called the pianistic nouveau-riche or parvenu, who

practises the vices of the dilettante without, however, the mitigating

excuse of ignorance or a lack of training.

THE PIANIST AND THE COMPOSITION

As the piano, so has also every composition its limitations as to the

range of its emotions and their artistic expression. The hints in this

direction I threw out before may now be amplified by discussing a very

common error which underlies the matter of conception. It is the error

of inferring the conception of a composition _from the name of its

composer_; of thinking that Beethoven has to be played thus and Chopin

thus. No error could be greater!

True, every great composer has his own style, his habitual mode of

thought development, his personality revealing lines. But it is equally

true that the imagination of all great composers was strong enough to

absorb them as completely in their own creation as the late Pygmalion

was absorbed in his Galatea, and to lure them, for the time being,

completely away from their habits of thought and expression; they become

the willing servants of the new creature of their own fancy. Thus we

find some of Beethoven's works as romantic and fanciful as any of

Schumann's or Chopin's could be, while some of the latter's works show

at times a good deal of Beethovenish classicity. It is, therefore,

utterly wrong to approach every work of Beethoven with the preconceived

idea that it must be "deep" and "majestic," or, if the work be Chopin's,

that it must run over with sensuousness and "feeling." How would such a

style of rendition do, for instance, for the Polonaise op. 53, or even

for the little one in A, op. 40, No. 1? On the other hand, how would the

stereotype, academic manner of playing Beethoven suit his Concerto in

G--that poetic presage of Chopin?

Every great master has written some works that are, and some that are

not, typical of himself. In the latter cases the master's identity

reveals itself only to an eye that is experienced enough to detect it in

the smaller, more minute traits of his style. Such delicate features,

however, must be left in their discreet nooks and niches; they must not

be clumsily dragged into the foreground for the sake of a traditional

rendition of the piece. That sort of "reverence" is bound to obliterate

all the peculiarities of the particular, non-typical composition. It is

not reverence, but fetichism. Justice to the composer means justice to

his works; to every work in particular. And this justice we cannot

learn from the reading of his biography, but by regarding every one of

his works as a separate and complete entity; as a perfect, organic whole

of which we must study the general character, the special features, the

form, the manner of design, the emotional course, and the trend of

thought. Much more than by his biography we will be helped, in forming

our conception, by comparing the work in hand with others of the same

master, though the comparison may disclose just as many differences of

style as it may show similarities.

The worship of names, the unquestioning acquiescence in traditional

conceptions--those are not the principles which will lead an artist to

come into his own. It is rather a close examination of every popular

notion, a severe testing of every tradition by the touchstone of

self-thinking that will help an artist to find himself and to see, what

he does see, with his own eyes.

Thus we find that--in a certain constructive meaning--even the reverence

for the composer is not without boundaries; though these boundary lines

are drawn here only to secure the widest possible freedom for their

work. Goethe's great word expresses most tersely what I mean:

Outwardly limited,

Boundless to inward.

GENERAL RULES

Successful piano-playing, if it cannot be entirely acquired by some very

simple rules, can, at least, be very much helped by what will seem to

some as contributing causes so slight as to be hardly worth notice.

Still, they are immensely valuable, and I will endeavour to set down a

few.

_The Value of the Morning Hour_ above any other time is not generally

appreciated. The mental freshness gained from sleep is a tremendous

help. I go so far as to say play away for an hour, or a half hour even,

before breakfast. But before you touch the piano let me suggest one very

prosaic little hint: wash the keyboard as clean as you did your hands.

Eating always tastes best from a clean table. Just so with the piano:

you cannot do clean work on an unclean keyboard.

_Now, as to Practice_: Let me suggest that you never practise more than

an hour, or, at the most, two hours, at a stretch--according to your

condition and strength. Then go out and take a walk, and think no more

of music. This method of mental unhitching, so to speak, is absolutely

necessary in order that the newly acquired results of your work

may--unconsciously to yourself--mature in your mind and get, as it were,

into your flesh and blood. That which you have newly learned must become

affixed to your entire organism, very much like the picture on a

photographic plate is developed and affixed by the silver bath. If you

allow Nature no time for this work the result of your previous efforts

will vanish and you will have to begin all over again with

your--photographing. Yes, photographing! For every acoustic or tone

picture is, through the agency of the ear, photographed in the brain,

and the whole occupation of the pianist consists in the reproduction of

the previously received impressions through the fingers, which, with the

help of the instrument, retranslate the pictures into audible tones.

After every half hour make a pause until you feel rested. Five minutes

will often be sufficient. Follow the example of the painter, who

closes his eyes for a few moments in order to obtain upon reopening them

a fresh color impression.

_A Valuable Little Hint Here_, if you will allow me: Watch well that you

actually hear every tone you mean to produce. Every missing tone will

mean a blotch upon your photographic plate in the brain. Each note must

be, not mentally but physically, heard, and to this imperative

requirement your speed must ever subordinate itself. It is not at all

necessary to practise loudly in order to foster the permanence of

impressions. Rather let an inward tension take the place of external

force. It will engage, sympathetically, your hearing just as well.

_As to the Theory_--great energy, great results--I prefer my amended

version: great energy, restrained power and moderate manifestation of

it. Prepare the finger for great force, imagine the tone as being

strong, and yet strike moderately. Continuous loud playing makes our

playing coarse. On the other hand, continuous soft playing will blur the

tone picture in our mind and cause us soon to play insecurely and

wrongly. From time to time we should, of course, practise loudly so as

to develop physical endurance. But for the greater part of practice I

recommend playing with restrained power. And, incidentally, your

neighbours will thank you for it, too.

_Do Not Practise Systematically_, or "methodically," as it is sometimes

called. Systematism is the death of spontaneousness, and spontaneousness

is the very soul of art. If you play every day at the same time the same

sequence of the same studies and the same pieces, you may acquire a

certain degree of skill, perhaps, but the spontaneity of your rendition

will surely be lost. Art belongs to the realm of emotional

manifestations, and it stands to reason that a systematic exploiting of

our emotional nature must blunt it.

_With Regard to Finger Exercises_: Do not let them be too frequent or

too long--at the most a half hour a day. A half hour daily, kept up for

a year, is enough for any one to learn to play one's exercises. And if

one can play them why should one keep everlastingly on playing them?

Can anybody explain, without reflecting upon one's sanity, why one

should persist in playing them? I suggest to use these exercises as

"preliminary warmers" (as practised in engines). As soon as the hands

have become warm and elastic, or pliable--"played in," as we pianists

say--drop the exercises and repeat them for the same purpose the next

morning, if you will. They can be successfully substituted, however. As

compositions they are but lukewarm water. If you will dip your hands,

instead, for five minutes into hot water you will follow my own method

and find it just as efficacious.

_A Rule for Memory Exercises_: If you wish to strengthen the receptivity

and retentiveness of your memory you will find the following plan

practical: Start with a short piece. Analyse the form and manner of its

texture. Play the piece a number of times very exactly with the music

before you. Then stop playing for several hours and try to trace the

course of ideas mentally in the piece. Try to hear the piece inwardly.

If you have retained some parts refill the missing places by repeated

reading of the piece, away from the piano. When next you go to the

piano--after several hours, remember--try to play the piece. Should you

still get "stuck" at a certain place take the sheet music, but play only

that place (several times, if necessary), and then begin the piece over

again, as a test, if you have better luck this time with those elusive

places. If you still fail resume your silent reading of the piece away

from the piano. Under no circumstances skip the unsafe place for the

time being, and proceed with the rest of the piece. By such forcing of

the memory you lose the logical development of your piece, tangle up

your memory and injure its receptivity. Another observation in

connection with memorising may find a place here. When we study a piece

we--unconsciously--associate in our mind a multitude of things with it

which bear not the slightest relation upon it. By these "things" I mean

not only the action of the piano, light or heavy, as it may be, but also

the colour of its wood, the colour of the wall paper, discoloration of

the ivory on some key of the piano, the pictures on the walls, the angle

at which the piano stands to the architectural lines of the room, in

short, all sorts of things. And we remain utterly unconscious of having

associated them with the piece we are studying--until we try to play the

well-learned piece in a different place, in the house of a friend or, if

we are inexperienced enough to commit such a blunder, in the concert

hall. Then we find that our memory fails us most unexpectedly, and we

blame our memory for its unreliableness. But the fact is rather that our

memory was only too good, too exact, for the absence of or difference

from our accustomed surroundings disturbed our too precise memory.

Hence, to make absolutely sure of our memory we should try our piece in

a number of different places before relying upon our memory; this will

dissociate the wonted environment from the piece in our memory.

_With Regard to Technical Work_: Play good compositions and construe out

of them your own technical exercises. In nearly every piece you play you

will find a place or two of which your conscience tells you that they

are not up to your own wishes; that they can be improved upon either

from a rhythmical, dynamical or precisional point of view. Give these

places the preference for a while, but do not fail to play from time to

time again the whole piece in order to put the erstwhile defective and

now repaired part into proper relation to its context. Remember that a

difficult part may "go" pretty well when severed from its context and

yet fail utterly when attempted in its proper place. You must follow the

mechanic in this. If a part of a machine is perfected in the shop it

must still go through the process of being "mounted"--that is, being

brought into proper relation to the machine itself--and this often

requires additional packing or filing, as the case may be. This

"mounting" of a repaired part is done best by playing it in conjunction

with one preceding and one following measure; then put two measures on

each side, three, four, etc., until you feel your ground safely under

your fingers. Not until then have you achieved your purpose of technical

practice. The mere mastering of a difficulty _per se_ is no guarantee of

success whatever. Many students play certain compositions for years, and

yet when they are asked to play them the evidences of imperfection are

so palpable that they cannot have finished the learning of them. The

strong probability is that they never will finish the "study" of them,

because they do not study right.

_As to the Number of Pieces_: The larger the number of good compositions

you are able to play in a finished manner, the better grow your

opportunities to develop your versatility of style; for in almost every

good composition you will find some traits peculiar to itself only which

demand an equally special treatment. To keep as many pieces as possible

in your memory and in good technical condition, play them a few times

each week. Do not play them, however, in consecutive repetitions. Take

one after the other. After the last piece is played the first one will

appear fresh again to your mind. This process I have tested and found

very helpful in maintaining a large repertory.

[Illustration: _The Position of the Hand_]

_Play Always with the Fingers_--that is, move your arms as little as

possible and hold them--and the shoulder muscles--quite loosely. The

hands should be nearly horizontal, with a slight inclination from the

elbows toward the keys. Bend the fingers gently and endeavour to touch

the keys in their centre and with the tips of the fingers. This will

tend toward sureness and give eyes to your fingers, so to speak.

_The Practice of Finger Octaves_: Play octaves first as if you were

playing single notes with one finger of each hand. Lift the thumb and

fifth finger rather high and let them fall upon the keys without using

the wrist. Later let the wrist come to your aid, sometimes even the arm

and shoulder muscles, though the latter should both be reserved for

places requiring great power.

Where powerful octaves occur in long continuation it is best to

distribute the work over the joints and muscles of the fingers, wrists,

and shoulders. With a rational distribution each of the joints will

avoid over-fatigue and the player will gain in endurance. This applies,

of course, only to bravura passages. In places where musical

characteristics predominate the player does best to choose whichever of

these sources of touch seems most appropriate.

[Illustration: _Incorrect Way to Play an Octave_]

[Illustration: _Correct Way to Play an Octave_]

[Illustration: _Photograph by Byron_

_Incorrect Position of Little Finger_]

[Illustration: _Correct Position of Little Finger_]

_About Using the Pedal_: Beware of too frequent and--above all--of

long-continued use of the pedal. It is the mortal enemy of clarity.

Judiciously, however, you should use it when you study a new work, for

if you accustom yourself to play a work without the pedal the habit of

non-pedalling will grow upon you, and you will be surprised to find

later how your feet can be in the way of your fingers. Do not delay the

use of the pedal as if it were the dessert after a repast.

_Never Play with a Metronome_: You may use a metronome for a little

passage as a test of your ability to play the passage in strict time.

When you see the result, positive or negative, stop the machine

at once. For according to the metronome a really musical rhythm is

unrhythmical--and, on the other hand, the keeping of absolutely strict

time is thoroughly unmusical and deadlike.

You should endeavour to reproduce the sum-total of the time which a

musical thought occupies. Within its scope, however, you must vary your

beats in accordance with their musical significance. This constitutes in

musical interpretation what I call the individual pulse-beat which

imparts life to the dead, black notes. Beware, however, of being too

"individual"! Avoid exaggeration, or else your patient will grow

feverish and all aesthetic interpretation goes to the happy hunting

grounds!

_The Correct Posture at the Piano_: Sit straight before the piano but

not stiff. Have both feet upon the pedals, so as to be at any moment

ready to use them. All other manners to keep the feet are--bad manners.

Let your hand fall with the arm upon the keyboard when you start a

phrase, and observe a certain roundness in all the motions of your arms

and hands. Avoid angles and sharp bends, for they produce strong

frictions in the joints, which means a waste of force and is bound to

cause premature fatigue.

_Do Not Attend Poor Concerts._ Do not believe that you can learn correct

vision from the blind, nor that you can really profit by hearing how a

piece should _not_ be played, and then trying the reverse. The danger of

getting accustomed to poor playing is very great. What would you think

of a parent who deliberately sent his child into bad company in order

that such child should learn how _not_ to behave? Such experiments are

dangerous. By attending poor concerts you encourage the bungler to

continue in his crimes against good taste and artistic decency, and you

become his accomplice. Besides, you help to lower the standard of

appreciation in your community, which may sink so low that good concerts

will cease to be patronised. If you desire that good concerts should be

given in your city the least you can do is to withhold your patronage

from bad ones. If you are doubtful as to the merits of a proposed

concert ask your own or your children's music teacher. He will

appreciate your confidence and be glad of the opportunity to serve you

for once in a musical matter that lies on a higher plane than your own

or your children's music lesson.

_To Those Who Play in Public_ I should like to say this: Before you have

played a composition in public two or three times you must not expect

that every detail of it shall go according to your wishes. Do not be

surprised at little unexpected occurrences. Consider that the acoustic

properties of the various halls constitute a serious danger to the

musician. Bad humor on your part, or a slight indisposition, even a

clamlike audience, Puritanically austere or cool from diffidence--all

these things can be overcome; but the acoustic properties remain the

same from the beginning of your programme to its end, and if they are

not a kindly counsellor they turn into a fiendish demon who sneers to

death your every effort to produce noble-toned pictures. Therefore, try

to ascertain, as early as possible, what sort of an architectural

stomach your musical feast is to fill, and then--well, do the best you

can. Approach the picture you hold in your mind as nearly as

circumstances permit.

_When I Find Bad Acoustics in a Hall._ An important medium of rectifying

the acoustic misbehaviour of a hall I have found in the pedal. In some

halls my piano has sounded as if I had planted my feet on the pedal for

good and ever; in such cases I practised the greatest abstention from

pedalling. It is a fact that we have to treat the pedal differently in

almost every hall to insure the same results. I know that a number of

books have been written on the use of the pedal, but they are theories

which tumble down before the first adverse experience on the legitimate

concert stage. There you can lean on nothing but experience.

_About Reading Books on Music._ And speaking of books on music, let me

advise you to read them, but not to believe them unless they support

every statement with an argument, and unless this argument succeeds in

convincing you. In art we deal far oftener with exceptions than with

rules and laws. Every genius in art has demonstrated in his works the

forefeeling of new laws, and every succeeding one has done by his

precursors as his successors have in their turn done by him. Hence all

theorising in art must be problematic and precarious, while dogmatising

in art amounts to absurdity. Music is a language--the language of the

musical, whatever and wherever be their country. Let each one, then,

speak in his own way, as he thinks and feels, provided he is sincere.

Tolstoi put the whole thing so well when he said: "There are only three

things of real importance in the world. They are: Sincerity! Sincerity!

Sincerity!"

CORRECT TOUCH AND TECHNIC

Great finger technic may be defined as extreme precision and great speed

in the action of the fingers. The latter quality, however, can never be

developed without the legato touch. I am convinced that the degree of

perfection of finger technic is exactly proportionate to the development

of the legato touch. The process of the non-legato touch, by showing

contrary results, will bear me out. To play a rapid run non-legato will

consume much more time than to play it legato because of the lifting of

the fingers between the tones. In playing legato the fingers are not

lifted off the keys, but--hardly losing contact with the ivory--glide

sideways to the right or the left as the notes may call for it. This,

naturally, saves both time and exertion, and thus allows an increase of

speed.

How is the true legato accomplished? By the gliding motion just

mentioned, and by touching the next following key before the finger

which played last has fully abandoned its key. To illustrate, let me say

that in a run of single notes two fingers are simultaneously at

work--the "played" and the "playing" one; in runs of double notes

(thirds, sixths, etc.) the number of simultaneously employed fingers is,

analogously, four. Only in this manner is a true legato touch to be

attained. While the fingers are in action the hand must not move lest it

produce gaps between the succeeding tones, causing not only a breaking

of the connection between them but also a lessening of speed. The

transfer of the hand should take place only when the finger is already

in touch with the key that is to follow--not at the time of contact,

still less before.

The selection of a practical fingering is, of course, of paramount

importance for a good legato touch. In attempting a run without a good

fingering we will soon find ourselves "out of fingers." In that

emergency we should have to resort to "piecing on," and this means a

jerk at every instance--equal to a non-legato. A correct fingering is

one which permits the longest natural sequel of fingers to be used

without a break. By earnest thinking every player can contrive the

fingering that will prove most convenient to him. But, admitting that

the great diversity of hands prohibits a universal fingering, all the

varieties of fingering ought to be based upon the principle of a natural

sequel. If a player be puzzled by certain configurations of notes and

keys as to the best fingering for them, he ought to consult a teacher,

who, if a good one, will gladly help him out.

Precision, the other component part of finger technic, is intimately

related with the player's general sense of orderliness. As a matter of

fact, precision is orderliness in the technical execution of a musical

prescription. If the student will but look quite closely at the piece he

is learning; if he has the patience to repeat a difficult place in it a

hundred times if necessary--and correctly, of course--he will soon

acquire the trait of precision and he will experience the resultant

increase in his technical ability.

Mental technic presupposes the ability to form a clear inward conception

of a run without resorting to the fingers at all. Since every action of

a finger has first to be determined upon by the mind, a run should be

completely prepared mentally before it is tried on the piano. In other

words, the student should strive to acquire the ability to form the

tonal picture in his mind, rather than the note picture.

The tonal picture dwells in our imagination. This acts upon the

responsive portions of the brain, influences them according to its own

intensity, and this influence is then transferred to the motoric

nerve-centres which are concerned in music-making. As far as known this

is the course by which the musician converts his musical concept into a

tonal reality. Hence, when studying a new work, it is imperative that a

tonal picture of perfect clarity should be prepared in the mind before

the mechanical (or technical) practicing begins. In the earlier stages

of cultivating this trait it will be best to ask the teacher to play the

piece for us, and thus to help us in forming a correct tonal picture in

our mind.

The blurring of the tonal picture produces a temporary (don't get

frightened!) paralysis of the motoric centres which control the

fingers. Every pianist knows--unfortunately--the sensation of having his

fingers begin to "stick" as if the keys were covered with flypaper, and

he knows, also, that this sensation is but a warning that the fingers

are going on a general and even "sympathetic" strike--sympathetic,

because even the momentarily unconcerned fingers participate in it. Now

the cause of this sensation lies not in a defective action of the

fingers themselves, but solely in the mind. It is there that some

undesired change has taken place, a change which impairs the action of

the fingers. The process is like this: by quick repetitions of

complicated figures, slight errors, slips, flaws escape our notice; the

more quick repetitions we make the larger will be the number of these

tiny blots, and this must needs lead finally to a completely distorted

tonal picture. This distortion, however, is not the worst feature.

Inasmuch as we are very likely not to make the same little blunders at

every repetition the tonal picture becomes confused, blurred. The nerve

contacts which cause the fingers to act become undecided first, then

they begin to fail more and more, until they cease altogether and the

fingers--stick! At such a juncture the student should at once resort to

slow practice. He should play the defective place clearly, orderly, and,

above all, slowly, and persist in this course until the number of

correct repetitions proves sufficient to crowd the confused tonal

picture out of the mind. This is not to be regarded as mechanical

practice, for it is intended for the rehabilitation of a disarranged or

disturbed mental concept. I trust this will speak for the practice of

what I called "mental technic." Make the mental tonal picture sharp; the

fingers must and will obey it.

[Illustration: _Incorrect Position of Thumb_]

[Illustration: _Correct Position of Thumb_]