literally from other languages, because it is a good compound for which
I can find no better equivalent in English. Whenever we find the fingers
going astray in the piece we play we might as well admit to ourselves
that the trouble is in the main office. The mysterious controlling
officer has been talking with a friend instead of attending to business.
The mind was not keeping step with the fingers. We have relied on our
automatism; we allowed the fingers to run on and the mind lagged behind,
instead of being, as it should be, ahead of the fingers, preparing their
work.
Quick musical thinking, the importance of which is thus apparent, cannot
be developed by any direct course. It is one of the by-products of the
general widening of one's musical horizon. It is ever proportionate to
the growth of one's other musical faculties. It is the result of
elasticity of the mind acquired or developed by constant, never-failing,
unremitting employment whenever we are at the piano. A procedure tending
directly toward developing quick musical thinking is, therefore, not
necessary.
The musical will has its roots in the natural craving for musical
utterance. It is the director-in-chief of all that is musical in us.
Hence I recognise in the purely technical processes of piano-playing no
less a manifestation of the musical will. But a technic without a
musical will is a faculty without a purpose, and when it becomes a
purpose in itself it can never serve art.
THE USE OF THE PEDAL
To speak in a concrete manner of the pedal is possible only on the basis
of a complete understanding of the fundamental principle underlying its
use. The reader must agree to the governing theory that the organ which
governs the employment of the pedal is--the ear! As the eye guides the
fingers when we read music, so must the ear be the guide--and the "sole"
guide--of the foot upon the pedal. The foot is merely the servant, the
executive agent, while the ear is the guide, the judge, and the final
criterion. If there is any phase in piano-playing where we should
remember particularly that music is for the ear it is in the treatment
of the pedal. Hence, whatever is said here in the following lines with
regard to the pedal must be understood as resting upon the basis of this
principle.
As a general rule I recommend pressing the lever or treadle down with a
quick, definite, full motion and always immediately after--mark me,
after--the striking of the keys, never simultaneously with the stroke of
the fingers, as so many erroneously assume and do. To prevent a
cacophonous mixture of tones we should consider that we must stop the
old tone before we can give pedal to the new one, and that, in order to
make the stopping of the past tone perfect, we must allow the damper to
press upon the vibrating strings long enough to do its work. If,
however, we tread down exactly with the finger-stroke we simply inhibit
this stopping, because the damper in question is lifted again before it
has had time to fall down. (In speaking of the dampers as moving up and
down I have in mind the action of the "grand" piano; in the upright
piano the word "off" must be substituted for "up," and "on" for "down.")
This rule will work in a vast majority of cases, but like every
rule--especially in art--it will be found to admit of many exceptions.
[Illustration: _Photograph by Byron_
_Incorrect Position of the Feet_]
[Illustration: _Photograph by Byron_
_Correct Position of the Feet on the Pedal_]
_Harmonic Clarity in Pedalling is the Basis_, but it is only the basis;
it is not all that constitutes an artistic treatment of the pedal. In
spite of what I have just said above there are in many pieces moments
where a blending of tones, seemingly foreign to one another, is a means
of characterisation. This blending is especially permissible when the
passing (foreign) tones are more than one octave removed from the lowest
tone and from the harmony built upon it. In this connection it should be
remembered that the pedal is not merely a means of tone prolongation but
also a means of colouring--and pre-eminently that. What is generally
understood by the term piano-charm is to the greatest extent produced by
an artistic use of the pedal.
For instance, great accent effects can be produced by the gradual
accumulating of tone-volume through the pedal and its sudden release on
the accented point. The effect is somewhat like that which we hear in
the orchestra when a crescendo is supported by a roll of the drum or
tympani making the last tap on the accented point. And, as I am
mentioning the orchestra, I may illustrate by the French horns another
use of the pedal: where the horns do not carry the melody (which they do
relatively seldom) they are employed to support sustained harmonies,
and their effect is like a glazing, a binding, a unifying of the various
tone-colours of the other instruments. Just such a glazing is produced
by the judicious use of the pedal, and when, in the orchestra, the horns
cease and the strings proceed alone there ensues a certain soberness of
tone which we produce in the piano by the release and non-use of the
pedal. In the former instance, while the horns were active they
furnished the harmonic background upon which the thematic development of
the musical picture proceeded; in the latter case, when the horns cease
the background is taken away and the thematic configurations stand
out--so to speak--against the sky. Hence, the pedal gives to the piano
tone that unifying, glazing, that finish--though this is not exactly the
word here--which the horns or softly played trombones give to the
orchestra.
_But the Pedal Can Do More Than That._ At times we can produce strange,
glasslike effects by purposely mixing non-harmonic tones. I only need to
hint at some of the fine, embroidery-like cadenzas in Chopin's works,
like the one in his E-minor Concerto (Andante, measures 101, 102, and
103). Such blendings are productive of a multitude of effects,
especially when we add the agency of dynamic gradation: effects
suggestive of winds from Zephyr to Boreas, of the splash and roar of
waves, of fountain-play, of rustling leaves, etc. This mode of blending
can be extended also to entire harmonies in many cases where one
fundamental chord is to predominate for some time while other chords may
pass in quicker succession while it lasts. In such cases it is by no
means imperative to abandon the pedal; we need only to establish various
dynamic levels and place the ruling harmony on a higher level than the
passing ones. In other words, the predominating chord must receive so
much force that it can outlast all those briefer ones which, though
audible, must die of their own weakness, and while the strong, ruling
chord was constantly disturbed by the weaker ones it also re-established
its supremacy with the death of every weaker one which it outlasted.
This use of the pedal has its limitations in the evanescent nature of
the tone of the piano. That moment when the blending of non-harmonic
tones imperils the tonal beauty of the piece in hand can be determined
solely and exclusively by the player's own ear, and here we are once
more at the point from which this article started, namely: that the ear
is governor, and that it alone can decide whether or not there is to be
any pedal.
It were absurd to assume that we can greatly please the ear of others by
our playing so long as our own ear is not completely satisfied. We
should, therefore, endeavour to train the susceptibility of our ear, and
we should ever make it more difficult to gain the assent of our own ear
than to gain that of our auditors. They may, apparently, not notice
defects in your playing, but at this juncture I wish to say a word of
serious warning: Do not confound unmindfulness with consent! To hear
ourselves play--that is, to listen to our own playing--is the bed-rock
basis of all music-making and also, of course, of the technic of the
pedal. Therefore, listen carefully, attentively to the tones you
produce. When you employ the pedal as a prolongation of the fingers (to
sustain tones beyond the reach of the fingers), see to it that you
catch, and hold, the fundamental tone of your chord, for this tone must
be always your chief consideration.
_Whether You Use the Pedal as a Means of Mere Prolongation_ or as a
medium of colouring, under no circumstances use it as a cloak for
imperfection of execution. For, like charity, it is apt to be made to
cover a multitude of sins; but, again like charity, who wants to make
himself dependent upon it, when honest work can prevent it?
Nor should the pedal be used to make up for a deficiency of force. To
produce a forte is the business of the fingers (with or without the aid
of the arm) but not of the pedal, and this holds true also--_mutatis
mutandis_--of the left pedal, for which the Germans use a word
(_Verschiebung_) denoting something like "shifting." In a "grand" piano
the treading of the left pedal shifts the hammers so far to one side
that instead of striking three strings they will strike only two. (In
the pianos of fifty and more years ago there were only two strings to
each tone, and when the hammers were shifted by the treading of the
left pedal they struck only one string. From those days we have retained
the term "_una corda_"--one string.) In an upright piano the lessening
of tone-volume is produced by a lessening of the momentum of the hammer
stroke.
Now, as the right pedal should not be used to cover a lack of force, so
should the left pedal not be regarded as a licence to neglect the
formation of a fine _pianissimo_ touch. It should not cloak or screen a
defective _pianissimo_, but should serve exclusively as a means of
colouring where the softness of tone is coupled with what the jewellers
call "dull finish." For the left pedal does not soften the tone without
changing its character; it lessens the quantity of tone but at the same
time it also markedly affects the quality.
To _Sum Up_: Train your ear and then use both pedals honestly! Use them
for what they were made. Remember that even screens are not used for
hiding things behind them, but for decorative purposes or for
protection. Those who do use them for hiding something must have
something which they prefer to hide!
PLAYING "IN STYLE"
By playing a piece of music "in style" is understood a rendition which
does absolute justice to its contents in regard to the manner of
expression. Now, the true manner of expression must be sought and found
for each piece individually, even though a number of different pieces
may be written by one and the same composer. Our first endeavour should
be to search out the peculiarity of the piece in hand rather than that
of the composer in general. If you have succeeded in playing one work by
Chopin in style, it does not follow, by any means, that you can play
equally well any other work from his pen. Though on general lines his
manner of writing may be the same in all his works, there will,
nevertheless, be marked differences between the various pieces.
Only by careful study of each work by itself can we find the key to its
correct conception and rendition. We will never find it in books about
the composer, nor in such as treat of his works, but only in the works
themselves and in each one _per se_. People who study a lot of things
about a work of art may possibly enrich their general knowledge, but
they never can get that specific knowledge needful for the
interpretation of the particular work in hand. Its own contents alone
can furnish that knowledge. We know from frequent experience that
book-learned musicians (or, as they are now called, musicologists)
usually read everything in sight, and yet their playing rises hardly
ever above mediocre dilettanteism.
Why should we look for a correct conception of a piece anywhere but in
the piece itself? Surely the composer has embodied in the piece all he
knew and felt when he wrote it. Why, then, not listen to his specific
language instead of losing our way in the terms of another art?
Literature is literature, and music is music. They may combine, as in
song, but one can never be substituted for the other.
_Many Students Never Learn_ to understand a composer's specific language
because their sole concern is to make the piece "effective" in the
sense of a clever stunt. This tendency is most deplorable; for there
really does exist a specifically musical language. By purely material
means: through notes, pauses, dynamic and other signs, through special
annotations, etc., the composer encloses in his work the whole world of
his imagination. The duty of the interpretative artist is to extract
from these material things the spiritual essence and to transmit it to
his hearers. To achieve this he must understand this musical language in
general and of each composition in particular.
But--how is this language to be learned?
By conning with careful attentiveness--and, of course, absorbing--the
purely material matter of a piece: the notes, pauses, time values,
dynamic indications, etc.
If a player be scrupulously exact in his mere reading of a piece it
will, of itself, lead him to understand a goodly portion of the piece's
specific language. Nay, more! Through a really correct conning the
player is enabled to determine upon the points of repose as well as upon
the matter of climax, and thus to create a basis for the operations of
his own imagination. After that, nothing remains but to call forth into
tonal life, through the fingers, what his musical intelligence has
grasped--which is a purely technical task. To transform the purely
technical and material processes into a thing that lives, of course,
rests with the natural, emotional, temperamental endowments of the
individual; it rests with those many and complex qualities which are
usually summarised by the term "talent," but this must be presupposed
with a player who aspires to artistic work.
On the other hand, talent alone cannot lift the veil that hides the
spiritual content of a composition if its possessor neglects to examine
the latter carefully as to its purely material ingredients. He may
flatter the ear, sensuously speaking, but he can never play the piece in
style.
_Now How Can We Know_ whether we are or are not approaching the
spiritual phase of a piece? By repetition under unremitting attention to
the written values. If, then, you should find how much there is still
left for you to do, you have proved to yourself that you have
understood the piece spiritually and are on the right track to master
it. With every repetition you will discover some hitherto unnoticed
defect in your interpretation. Obviate these defects, one by one, and in
so doing you will come nearer and nearer to the spiritual essence of the
work in hand.
As to the remaining "purely technical task" (as I said before), it must
not be underestimated! To transmit one's matured conception to one's
auditors requires a considerable degree of mechanical skill, and this
skill, in its turn, must be under absolute control of the will. Of
course--after the foregoing--this does not mean that everybody who has a
good and well-controlled technic can interpret a piece in style.
Remember that to possess wealth is one thing, to put it to good use is
quite another.
It is sometimes said that the too objective study of a piece may impair
the "individuality" of its rendition. Have no fear of that! If ten
players study the same piece with the same high degree of exactness and
objectivity--depend upon it: each one will still play it quite
differently from the nine others, though each one may think his
rendition the only correct one. For each one will express what,
according to his lights, he has mentally and temperamentally absorbed.
Of the distinctive feature which constitutes the difference in the ten
conceptions each one will have been unconscious while it formed itself,
and perhaps also afterward. But it is just this unconsciously formed
feature which constitutes legitimate individuality and which alone will
admit of a real fusion of the composer's and the interpreter's thought.
A purposed, blatant parading of the player's dear self through wilful
additions of nuances, shadings, effects, and what not, is tantamount to
a falsification; at best it is "playing to the galleries," charlatanism.
The player should always feel convinced that he plays only what is
written. To the auditor, who with his own and different intelligence
follows the player's performance, the piece will appear in the light of
the player's individuality. The stronger this is the more it will colour
the performance, when unconsciously admixed.
_Rubinstein Often Said to Me_: "Just play first exactly what is written;
if you have done full justice to it and then still feel like adding or
changing anything, why, do so." Mind well: after you have done full
justice to what is written! How few are those who fulfil this duty! I
venture to prove to any one who will play for me--if he be at all worth
listening to--that he does not play more than is written (as he may
think), but, in fact, a good deal less than the printed page reveals.
And this is one of the principal causes of misunderstanding the esoteric
portion, the inherent "style" of a piece--a misunderstanding which is
not always confined to amateurs--inexact reading!
The true interpretation of a piece of music results from a correct
understanding of it, and this, in turn, depends solely upon scrupulously
exact reading.
_Learn the Language of Music_, then, I repeat, through exact reading!
You will then soon fathom the musical meaning of a composition and
transmit it intelligibly to your listeners. Would you satisfy your
curiosity as to what manner of person the author is or was at the time
of writing, you may do so. But--as I said in the "Foreword"--your chief
interest should centre in the "composition," not in the "composer," for
only by studying his work will you be enabled to play it in style.
HOW RUBINSTEIN TAUGHT ME TO PLAY
Outside of the regular students of the Imperial Conservatory of Music at
St. Petersburg, Rubinstein accepted but one pupil. The advantage and
privilege to be that one pupil was mine.
I came to Rubinstein when I was sixteen years old and left him at
eighteen. Since that time I have studied only by myself; for to whom
could I have gone after Rubinstein? His very manner of teaching was such
that it would have made any other teacher appear to me like a
schoolmaster. He chose the method of indirect instruction through
suggestive comparisons. He touched upon the strictly musical only upon
rare occasions. In this way he wished to awaken within me the concretely
musical as a parallel of his generalisations and thereby preserve my
musical individuality.
He never played for me. He only talked, and I, understanding him,
translated his meaning into music and musical utterances. Sometimes, for
instance, when I played the same phrase twice in succession, and played
it both times alike (say in a sequence), he would say: "In fine weather
you may play it as you did, but when it rains play it differently."
Rubinstein was much given to whims and moods, and he often grew
enthusiastic about a certain conception only to prefer a different one
the next day. Yet he was always logical in his art, and though he aimed
at hitting the nail from various points of view he always hit it on the
head. Thus he never permitted me to bring to him, as a lesson, any
composition more than once. He explained this to me once by saying that
he might forget in the next lesson what he told me in the previous one,
and by drawing an entirely new picture only confuse my mind. Nor did he
ever permit me to bring one of his own works, though he never explained
to me his reason for this singular attitude.
[Illustration: _Anton Rubinstein_]
[Illustration: _How Rubinstein Taught Me to Play_]
Usually, when I came to him, arriving from Berlin, where I lived, I
found him seated at his writing-desk, smoking Russian cigarettes. He
lived at the Hotel de l'Europe. After a kindly salute he would always
ask me the same question: "Well, what is new in the world?"
I remember replying to him: "I know nothing new; that's why I came to
learn something new--from you."
Rubinstein, understanding at once the musical meaning of my words,
smiled, and the lesson thus promised to be a fine one.
I noticed he was usually not alone when I came, but had as visitors
several elderly ladies, sometimes very old ladies (mostly Russians), and
some young girls--seldom any men. With a wave of his hand he directed me
to the piano in the corner, a Bechstein, which was most of the time
shockingly out of tune; but to this condition of his piano he was always
serenely indifferent. He would remain at his desk studying the notes of
the work while I played. He always compelled me to bring the pieces
along, insisting that I should play everything just as it was written!
He would follow every note of my playing with his eyes riveted on the
printed pages. A pedant he certainly was, a stickler for the
letter--incredibly so, especially when one considered the liberties he
took when he played the same works! Once I called his attention modestly
to this seeming paradox, and he answered: "When you are as old as I am
now you may do as I do--if you can."
Once I played a Liszt Rhapsody pretty badly. After a few moments he
said: "The way you played this piece would be all right for auntie or
mamma." Then rising and coming toward me he would say: "Now let us see
how we play such things." Then I would begin all over again, but hardly
had I played a few measures when he would interrupt and say: "Did you
start? I thought I hadn't heard right----"
"Yes, master, I certainly did," I would reply.
"Oh," he would say vaguely. "I didn't notice."
"How do you mean?" I would ask.
"I mean this," he would answer: "Before your fingers touch the keys you
must begin the piece mentally--that is, you must have settled in your
mind the _tempo_, the manner of touch, and, above all, the attack of
the first notes, before your actual playing begins. And by-the-bye, what
is the character of this piece? Is it dramatic, tragic, lyric, romantic,
humourous, heroic, sublime, mystic--what? Well, why don't you speak?"
Generally I would mutter something after such a tirade, but usually I
said something stupid because of the awe with which he inspired me.
Finally, after trying several of his suggested designations I would hit
it right. Then he would say: "Well, there we are at last! Humourous, is
it? Very well! And rhapsodical, irregular--hey? You understand the
meaning?" I would answer, "Yes."
"Very well, then," he would reply; "now prove it." And then I would
begin all over again.
He would stand at my side, and whenever he wanted a special stress laid
upon a certain note his powerful fingers would press upon my left
shoulder with such force that I would stab the keys till the piano
fairly screamed for me. When this did not have the effect he was after
he would simply press his whole hand upon mine, flattening it out and
spreading it like butter all over the keys, black and white ones,
creating a frightful cacophony. Then he would say, almost with anger,
"But cleaner, cleaner, cleaner," as if the discord had been of my doing.
Such occurrences did not lack a humourous side, but their turn into the
tragical always hung by a hair, especially if I had tried to explain or
to make excuses. So I generally kept silent, and I found, after some
experience, that was the only proper thing for me to do. For just as
quickly as he would flare up he would also calm down again, and when the
piece was ended I would hear his usual comment: "You are an excellent
young man!" And how quickly was all pain then forgotten!
I remember on one occasion that I played Schubert-Liszt's "Erl-Koenig."
When I came to the place in the composition where the Erl-King says to
the child, "Thou dear, sweet child, oh, come with me," and I had played
several false notes besides very poor arpeggios, Rubinstein asked me:
"Do you know the text at this place?"
As a reply I quoted the words.
"Very well, then," he said, "the Erl-King addresses the child; Erl-King
is a spirit, a ghost--so play this place in a spiritlike way, ghostly,
if you will, but not ghastly with false notes!"
I had to laugh at his word-play and Rubinstein himself chimed in, and
the piece was saved, or rather the player. For when I repeated that
particular part it went very well, and he allowed me to continue without
further interruption.
Once I asked him for the fingering of a rather complex passage.
"Play it with your nose," he replied, "but make it sound well!"